


The Beacon of the Barrows

by cneajnaaimee (Kattungefisk)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, basically inspired by getting annoyed at my early 2000s fic faves, not here for internalized misogyny my dudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 92,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kattungefisk/pseuds/cneajnaaimee
Summary: When Emma Smith went to England, she expected to be spending her month working on her dissertation - not falling through barrows, joining hobbits on a quest, and getting a shake-down by the heir of Isildur. No one ever said a PhD was easy.-Book Canon-





	1. There, or Emma's PhD Takes a Hiatus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I definitely wrote this fanfiction as a response to the problematic treatment of female original characters in fanfiction of the early millennium, not as an excuse to write Tom Bombadil-esque poetry, ahem.

The village of Uffington was not where she thought an adventure would start. It was neither bustling, nor eerily quiet, and the inn she chose was a plain place with no ghosts or other strange rumours to give it character. The most out of the ordinary features of the place were the prehistoric sights that decorated the chalk downs: Dragon Hill, the White Horse, Uffington Castle, and the ancient barrow known as Wayland's Smithy. But even those features were common across England, and so were not in the least suspect.

Emma Smith did not come to Uffington with high expectations. It seemed like a pleasant place to begin her research trip across England, visiting the barrows that she was doing her dissertation on, writing about their Anglo-Saxon names. Wayland's Smithy would be her first visit, and the only barrow she'd visit before spending the next several days in the libraries of the University of Oxford.

After hauling her bags through the inn and settling into her room, Emma pulled on her tougher hiking boots. It was early in the day and she wasn't feeling so jet lagged yet from her overnight flight that she thought she might go out and go for a walk around the chalk downs. After quickly writing to her parents to let them know she'd arrived, and sending a message to her supervisor that, with any luck, she'd have answered in two weeks, Emma set out.

According to the innkeepers, the quickest route was down the Broad Way, which would take her straight to Dragon Hill. Though she hadn't meant to see the chalk carvings until the next day, when she would take her photographic equipment and her file filled with the site documents and maps, the kind old couple insisted on her going. In the end, she supposed that it wouldn't be too bad to check them out briefly and be able narrow down the equipment she'd need.

On the late June day, there was a cool breeze in the air and the sun was hidden behind dark clouds that threatened rain but withheld. She kept herself in the green brush along the way, as the lane was too narrow for even a person to share the road with any cars that may pass by. But at that time of the morning, and with the strong chance of rain, there was no one about. Occasionally Emma peered over the hedges, but even in the fields of farm land there was no one to be seen. It was as though she was the only person in the world.

Normally that sort of thought was a comfort to her, having grown up in a large family, but for the first time since her arrival, she felt a sense of unease settle into the pit of her stomach.

After a half hour of walking, she reached a crossroad, beyond which a small hill rose. Dragon Hill, she assumed, zipping up her jacket. The wind was growing stronger, but she hadn't thought to bring a scarf or hat, as she should have. When she reached the hill, she found what appeared to be a small footpath, and climbed it to the top.

On a brighter day, the view down to the village might have been beautiful, but with the looming clouds and fell wind, it only added to her unease. The chalk patch was smaller than she expected, after the legends that it had inspired. She had read that it was St. George slew his dragon, and the chalk was where the dragon's blood fell, and no grass had grown there since.

As she turned to leave the hill, Emma's ankle gave out beneath her, sending her flying into the chalk. Her elbow dug into the patch, hitting a sharp object. With a gasp, she pulled herself up, making sure that she caused as little damage to the hill as possible. Only the gouge where her elbow landed seemed obvious to her, and she reached out to brush it back to its original state when her fingers brushed against the small object. It was not a rock as she had thought, but a ring, tarnished as though it had sat in a fire for a long time. The craftsmanship was incredible, under the scorches and soot, and a deep red gem was set into it. After staring at it for few moments, she pulled a handkerchief out her purse and wrapped it, placing it gently in her pocket. She would take it to the local museum for them to look at, but she doubted that it was too old.

She looked up at the White Horse Hill, wondering if she should bother with the climb, when the breeze picked up, seeming to push her towards the horse. Not wanting to walk back facing wind, Emma made her way up the hill carefully until she reached the face of the white horse. According to local custom, walking around the eye of the horse counter-clockwise seven times would allow her to make a wish and have it granted, but she wasn't in the mood for that. She just wanted to press on and see Wayland's Smithy before the storm came in.

Uffington Castle was at the top of the hill, but Emma chose not to bother with it, as it wasn't part of her area of interest. There was a dirt road just beyond it, the innkeeper had told her, that would take her to the barrow - the Ridgeway.

It took another half hour to reach the Smithy, past empty fields. A few scattered rain drops hit her head, but never managed a full shower. She pulled up her hood anyways, just in case.

At last she reached the gate to the barrow. There was a ring of trees up ahead that hid it from view, and she hurried up to them.

She had her reasons for choosing this barrow first. The local legends claimed that if you left a coin at the entrance and tied up your horse there overnight, in the morning you could return to find your horse newly shod. But Emma knew the truth of the story.

For centuries her family lived in Ashbury, a town not twenty minutes from the barrow. Her family had been blacksmiths with a sense of humour - every night they would check the Smithy and see if a horse had been left. They would bring the horse to their shop, re-shod it, return it, and take the coin as their pay, keeping the legend alive until the late nineteenth century when they closed their smithy down and travelled to the New World. The Smiths were gone, but the legend of Wayland remained behind.

In the stormy light, Wayland's Smithy became ominous and looming. The large stones that stood like guards in front were on either side of the pathway leading into the barrow. As she circled the entirety of it, Emma began making a list in her head: camera, tripod, at least two metre sticks, possibly some lighting equipment in case the weather didn't pull through. She made it back to the front as she was considering the merits of bringing a laser leveller. The wind had died completely, and there was deafening silence in the little grove, but having entered her academic mode, Emma noticed none of it.

Since she was the only one there, she decided to be a bad tourist. Stepping over the little wall that blocked the pathway, she approached the entrance. In this light the entrance was just a black vortex, without any sign that there were archaeological remains inside.

Between the stones before it, Emma's eye caught a glimpse of metal. She kneeled down, careful on her sore knee from Dragon Hill, and picked up a silver coin.

Immediately a strong and freezing gust of wind hit her from behind and tipped Emma into the dark entrance.

As she smacked onto the floor, Emma's first thought was that it had gotten significantly colder inside. Her second thought was that she shouldn't be naked. Pushing herself up, she felt down her body. Pale, freckled skin, but not a scrap of cloth.

Panicked thoughts ripped through her head. Had she been drugged? Did she go into a fugue state, tear off her clothes, then throw herself at the ground?

She groped along the ground for her clothes or her bag. Her fingers brushed over a piece of leather and she grabbed it, yanking on what she thought was her bag. Instead, she touched on what appeared to be the hilt of a sword.

Why was a sword still in Wayland's Smithy? Shouldn't it be in the museum? Maybe she had knocked into a previously unexplored niche and it dropped out. Unlikely, but not improbable.

Pushing herself onto her feet, she felt around with her hands until she felt the ceiling, then the wall. Clutching the heavy sword in one had, she used the other hand against the wall to guide her way and moved forward until her feet tapped against some tinkling metal. Her hands found two small objects - the ring from Dragon Hill, and the silver coin. Briefly she wondered why those would be where she was and not her satchel when she felt a piece of cloth brush against her. Her clothes!

Eagerly she reached out to grab them, only to find some strange rough cloth. When she pulled on it, an earthly screech echoed through the barrow.

Shrieking, Emma pulled away the cloak and felt something grab at her, like the icy hand of a skeleton. She ran as fast as possible towards where she thought the entrance would be and slammed into stone. Dazed a bit from the collision, she saw a piece of daylight sneak through and she shoved at the stone until it pushed open just enough to let her slide through and out of the barrow. Another shriek followed her as she escaped out into an open field.

An open field that was definitely not the grove of Wayland's Smithy.

It was filled with hills and monoliths that stretched as far as her eye could see, with other barrows dotting the hills. There were strange and ancient statues, and in the distance she could spot movements like shadows in the dips of the downs. The only thing familiar to her was the stormy sky.

Looking at her hands in confusion, Emma stared at what she had gathered. The red ring and the silver coin from the Wessex chalk downs, and what she had found in the barrow, what in the light of day was obviously a well-used sword and a tattered and mildew-scented cloak, with a large tarnished silver brooch that was engraved with an eight-pointed star and up-turned crescent moon. She wrapped the cloak around herself - regardless of her confusion and its grossness, she was still cold.

Standing there shivering, she decided that whatever had happened, she needed to go. There were dangerous things here and she needed to find a town or something to help her understand what happened to her. After taking a moment to look in all the directions, she opted to go left, as the shadows that way seemed less mobile.

She couldn't tell how long she walked without her phone to help her tell the time, but she knew it was a long while. She had moved slowly and cautiously to avoid being noticed. The cloak had a hood, so she pulled it up to hide her hair, which might have been noticed by anything out there, as it was a bright copper that she could see nowhere else. Her feet grew numb the further she went and she could see no end to the place she was in. To keep her mind busy from panicking or dark thoughts of death, she recited things to herself: names of Anglo-Saxon monarchs, then Norse and Danish, and then Norman. After that she moved onto the riddles of the Exeter Book.

_I‘m a wonderful thing shaped for fighting,_  
_beautifully dressed, dear to my master._  
_Gay coloured is my byrnie; bright wire that my wielder_  
_who guides me gave me, embraces the death-gem,_  
_who sometimes to strife directs my wanderings._  
_Then I bring home treasure through the shining day,_  
_handiwork of smiths, gold to the dwellings._  
_Often I slay living warriors_  
_with weapons of war. A king adorns me_  
_with jewels and silver and honours me in the hall,_  
_nor withholds my praise, publicly proclaims_  
_my merits before men, when they drink their mead;_  
_sometimes holds me back or frees me when weary_  
_with going into battle. I have often hurt another_  
_at the hands of his friend. I am far and wide hated,_  
_accursed among weapons. I must never hope_  
_that a son will avenge me on the life of my slayer_  
_if ever an enemy assails me in battle;_  
_nor will my kin be increased, the breed whence I sprang—_  
_unless bereft of my lord I might change to a new,_  
_turn from the owner who first rewarded me._  
_Henceforth I am fated if I follow a (new) lord_  
_to do battle for him as I did for the other,_  
_for my prince’s pleasure, that I must forego_  
_the wealth of children and know no woman;_  
_for he who held me of yore in thrall_  
_denies me that bliss. I must therefore enjoy_  
_single, alone, the wealth of heroes._  
_Often foolish in my finery I enrage a woman,_  
_diminish her desire; her tongue abuses me;_  
_she hits me with her hands, reviles me with words,_  
_intones a curse. I like not this contest.…_

"A sword." Emma whispered, and she clutched the hilt closer to her chest. 

As it grew dark, she crested a hill and looked down. A whole forest was stretched out before her. Exhausted, she sunk to her knees. She had no water, no food, and instead of making it to a town, she had instead found a massive forest. Even though she had played in woods as a child and could possibly find some water and berries, maybe even build a small shelter, she didn't know where she was and what would be safe to consume. As well, she was still barefoot and mostly naked. The likelihood of dying from exposure began to sink in on her.

From behind her, she heard the distant thundering of hooves. She turned back and in the dim light she saw cloaked strangers on large horses. They faced the Barrow Downs and lifted their arms.

And then they screamed.

If she had thought that the thing within Wayland's Smithy had been horrifying, it was nothing to this. The screeching made the earth tremble beneath Emma's feet and her heart beat rapidly in fear. As her adrenaline began to kick in, she clutched the sword in her arms, knowing that it would be useless.

The riders turned towards her.

Emma fled. She raced down the hill, bare feet flying and barely keeping herself from falling to the ground. The horses were getting closer and she flew into the woods, leaping over a fallen log and landing on a sharp branch that cut into her foot. Swearing, the pushed herself forward, limping slightly, into a tighter knot of trees where horses were unlikely to be able to make it through.

By the time she felt safe enough to stop, the moon was out. The clouds had been left behind in the downs, and with what little light she had Emma pushed through the forest. She thought that she could hear the dribbling of a stream and thirst kept her moving until finally she saw the moving shimmer of a creek.

Gratefully she knelt down and cupped some of the water in her hands. Praying that it wasn't downstream from anything dead, she drank greedily, spilling all over her face. After a few handfuls, she turned her attention to her foot. The blood had stopped awhile back, but it was still smeared all over. She washed it off as best she could, trying not to re-open it. Her adrenaline was sinking away and she lay down on the ground for a moment.

From the bushes, a man spoke. She jumped, expecting one of the hooded creatures, and turned to see a strange looking man. He was large, but shorter than her, and had a very long beard. In the light she couldn't quite tell what colour his hat and coat were, but she didn't quite care. A man had appeared before her and she was nearly naked. 

She shot up, wrapping herself tighter with the cloak and grabbing onto the sword. He spoke to her again gently, in a strange lilting language that she couldn't recognize. The man didn't seem like he would hurt her - he was very old - but twenty-six years of being a women had taught her to be overly cautious.

The man asked her a question in his language, which she was still trying to guess at. It sounded a bit Russian maybe? But she never studied that, she had specialized in Anglo and Scandinavian languages. She shrugged at the man, no idea what he was saying.

The man tsked at her, then hummed to himself as walked over to the water. Picking up a leaf, he folded it into a cup and scooped up some water from the creek. He offered it to Emma.

Although she was filled with misgivings, she had watched him pick the leaf off the ground and had already drank the water. Accepting it from, she took a sip.

"Hey dol! Tom Bom, jolly Tom, knows a trick or two!"

Choking on the water, Emma stared at him in shock. His words were still in that strange language, but now she could understand it, and in an unnerving way, his words were familiar to her.

Hopping off to the bushes, Tom pushed through and she saw that he had moved onto a deer trail. She got up and followed him at a slight distance.

"Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!  
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.  
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,  
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,  
Slender she came from the silver water  
Old Tom Bombadil will join the River-daughter!  
Come merry dol! Hop near, daughter of men,  
We'll sing and sup in the warmest den!"

Emma stopped short.

If he was Tom Bombadil...

Had she somehow found herself in Middle-earth?


	2. Questions Unanswered, or Emma Represses Her Emotions Because the Alternative is a Full Breakdown

Within the house of Tom Bombadil, Emma Smith was warm and not terrified completely, a vast improvement over the last several hours of her life. The main room was cozy, with several lamps and candles giving it a warm glow. It reminded her of a Viking long house, but more elegant and light. What a long house might've looked like in Asgard.

She had been introduced to Goldberry, the River-daughter and wife of Tom Bombadil. Goldberry was a wonderful and kind hostess, and had welcomed Emma with incredible generosity. She was beautiful, with golden hair and a shimmering dress, and decorated with flowers in her hair and her belt and her dress. Just seeing her brought a joy to Emma's heart that calmed her completely. They gave her a soft shirt to wear and offered her food.

Now that she knew who she was with, Emma felt safe and trusting enough to eat the food. Being in Middle-earth was shocking and she was sure that the horrible implications of that would hit her later, but for now she was just happy to be warm, fed, and safe. Her foot, though it was still aching, had been bandaged.

At the insistence of Tom and Goldberry, she told them her story, explaining how she had stumbled into the barrow from her one in her own world. When Tom asked to see the coin she had brought with her, he simply glanced over it and handed it back, not terribly interested. Instead he questioned her about what she saw in the Barrow-downs, the wights and the Nazgûl He chewed thoughtfully on his pipe while thinking over the presence of the creatures of darkness. Emma tried in her mind to figure out when she was in terms of the books, but her day had been too long and overall, she was feeling quite sleepy. She was guided to a room up some stairs that had single mattress with many blankets and a pair of slippers. She sunk into the bed and was out almost instantly. There were troubled dreams, with wolves and children, the screams and clashing of metal, and a lifeless body in her hands. She disentangled herself from those dreams and returned to a deep slumber.

When she awoke the next day she felt all the aches and pains that had been numbed by the adrenaline of the day before. Muscles that were used to the habits of a scholar fond of Netflix had been stretched and pushed to their limits, and there were scratches all along her arms and legs, as well as huge bruises blooming on her elbows and knees. She thought back to when she was a kid living in the boonies on a farm and sighed. She was able to take all the tumbles and scrapes back then, but she'd gotten used to living in a nice city and manicured parks. Practically a city-slicker now, she thought to herself.

While she lay there, she considered the fact that she was in Middle-earth. The idea of it was not something new to her - as a kid she and her friend would often play in the woods and pretend they were helping the fellowship. When she was a prepubescent she had read an ungodly amount of fanfiction, starting with self-insert Mary Sues, then moving into the meta fics like Protectors of the Plot Continuum and the Fanfiction University of Middle-earth. She was familiar with the trope of 'modern girl falls into Middle-earth' but the idea of it actually happening was ridiculous. She hadn't believed in magic since she was fifteen and her jumbled up spell to pass her math test had failed fantastically. Yet, here she was.

Well, she mused, at least she had something on the other modern girls. Growing up in a small town with just farms and woods to play in as a kid had given her some survival skills - if she had to make her way to Bree or even Rivendell, as long as she had some clothes and a few supplies, and managed to avoid goblins, trolls, and other beasts, she would be fine. Horse-riding was a different subject entirely, and she had never grown to like the hooved demons, although her cousins had been true horse people. And since Tom had somehow given her the ability to speak and understand Westron, this would be even more interesting! It was like a dictionary had been dropped into her head - she had all the words she needed right in her head, but she knew that her grammar would be horrendous, since she spoke more informally than people in Middle-earth did. Speaking to the elves would be a painful experience for her. Though they spoke a different language, did they not? Sindarin or Quenya, not so much Westron.

Even though she knew she should be terrified, now knowing that it was Nazgûl she had seen in the barrow-downs, and a wight that had grasped at her inside the barrow that had somehow brought her here, she was filled intellectual curiousity. She could explore Westron and Mannish languages properly, maybe even create a proper compendium of Middle-earth's languages - what once had been somewhat shallow created languages were now living languages! There would be slang, pronouns, obscure grammar, genitive and accusative cases, and all sorts of fascinating features that Tolkien never gave his readers.

And there was no question of her going home or not. Regardless of how beautiful Middle-earth was, she was a girl of the twenty-first century. Wi-fi and indoor plumbing were a necessity for her life, and she was just starting on her PhD! It was already going to take her years, she didn't need an interlude in Lord of the Rings to stretch that out.

As Emma pondered over her circumstances, her stomach growled. With a sigh, she rolled of bed and grimaced from the pain. The ring and the coin were on the small night table next to her and she grabbed them, holding them in her hand. She wasn't sure what had happened to the sword and cloak she had stolen from the wight, but she wouldn't be surprised if Tom Bombadil had disposed of the them, being property of evil beings. Putting on the green slippers beside the bed and hugging the shirt to her, she headed down the stairs to the main room.

She found Goldberry in her chair, embroidering with what seemed like silk threads but had an odd translucence. Tom Bombadil had left his home apparently.

"Good morning, dear friend! You slept so long that Tom nearly woke you, but I would not let him. Do sit with me!" Goldberry waved her arm gracefully to indicate a chair made of reeds beside her, and next to that seemed to be a steaming pot of tea.

It wasn't coffee, but it would work.

Emma sat beside Goldberry and poured herself a cup, offering one to the lady of the house, who gently declined. The cup was interesting to her; Goldberry watched her investigation with curiousity. It was of some sort of clay, and had no handle, more like a little jug than a teacup. The pot was like a tall pitcher with a spout, similar to a 'Nordic' inspired teapot she'd seen once at tea shop. The tea itself she gave a good sniff. Herbal, rather than black. The scent was familiar, but she couldn't place it until she took a sip.

"Dandelion tea?" She smiled happily, "Where do you get the dandelions from?"

Goldberry laughed, and it sounded like the tinkling of bells. Emma sighed in wonder. "My dear Tom brings me many flowers from the forest. Sometimes I find new uses for them."

Sipping at her tea, Emma considered her next question. She had wanted to ask Tom, as he was some sort of physical Middle-earth deity, but she supposed the Goldberry may have some of the answers she might need.

"Do you know anything about these?" She asked, holding up the ring and the coin.

Goldberry reached up to touch them, but when she reached for the ring she winced. "This was made in fire and lost in fire. It is not for my sort." When she touched the coin, she tilted her head. "This belongs to Tom's people. It is the ice to the ring's fire - but it is an offering. I can tell you no more."

"Thank you." With another sip, Emma thought on her new information. The ring made in fire and lost in fire. Obviously not the One Ring, which was made in fire but lost in water. But what could it be then? She considered what remembered of the rings - she had re-read the books when she started her Master's degree three years ago, but the details of things were lost on her. One Ring to rule them all, nine for the human kings, seven for the dwarves, and three for the elves. The elves had separate rings, she remembered from the Silmarillion. The One Ring and the nine were accounted for. That left the dwarven rings. What had happened to those again?

She left one part of her brain to consider that question while she moved onto the coin. The coin had been placed at the entrance to Wayland's Smithy. If it was an offering to one of Tom's kind, a deity, then she supposed that it might have been left by a pagan of some-sort. There hadn't exactly been a horse there to shod. Somehow the coin must've connected the two barrows. That, or the god, Wayland she supposed, connected them. If she took the coin, did that mean the portal between the worlds was left open? Or was it just for the possessor of the coin? And if it was the god, did her family's history as the smiths have anything to do with this?

The trials of academia, she thought to herself, the Fibonacci sequence of questions.

A scone had been placed next to the tea and Emma nibbled on it thoughtfully. It was a regular scone with some berries - blackberries it seemed. It might not be too bad scavenging for food.

When Goldberry mentioned that a bath was drawn for Emma, she leapt out of the chair in search of it. She hadn't washed since the evening before her flight to the UK, which felt like ages ago. She didn't come out of the bath for at least an hour, scrubbing her entire self clean from the dirt. Some of her scratches and her cut stung, but it was all worth it. While she was in there, she quickly checked over the various modern additions to her body. Her earrings and clothes were gone, but a run of tongue along her teeth showed that her fillings were still in place. She also checked and found that the strings of her IUD were still in place, to her immense relief.

When she left the bath, she found a shift and a dress waiting for her and looked them over - both were hand sewn, but had an incredibly quality to them. The shift was lightweight linen, finer than she'd ever seen. She'd worn similar clothing at a few reenactments that she'd been brought to by friends in her degree, but they were very rough compared to this. The difference in actually making your own clothes versus receiving clothes from a pair of deities, she supposed. The dress was a shimmering light blue that set off her flaming hair, and wearing it made Emma feel as though she was in some sort of fairy tale. It was almost, but not quite, authentically medieval. When she held it to the window she could see beautiful silver embroidery of leaves and vines.

Goldberry was setting out a meal when Emma returned, singing softly to herself. Tom was there, decorating her with wildflowers, but when he saw Emma, he smiled.

"Good afternoon, well-met friend!" He cried out, "Rested and cleansed are you?"

"I am, thank you." Placing the last forget-me-not in Goldberry's hair, Tom went over to the door, where Emma saw the sword and cloak she'd pilfered from the wight. He brought them over to her. "You be careful with this one," he said, tapping on the sword, "I told it to behave for its new lady, but it'll turn on you given half the chance." He held it out to her, "Behold, our new wight-wielder!"

Taking it from his hands, she was reminded of the weight of it, and was shocked that she had managed to drag it across the Barrow-downs the day before. For the first time, she pulled the sword from the sheath. The steel blade was still sharp after however many years it had been in the barrow, even though the leather wrappings around the hilt, and on the sheath, were in awful shape. Underneath was the cloak, still worn and rough, a mixture of black and grey, but at least it no longer smelt of mildew, and its brooch had been polished, the silver star and moon shimmered in the light.

And the sword would turn on her? Perfect. Because Middle-earth wasn't dangerous enough.

After their meal, Tom and Goldberry sat together, Tom reciting new poetry to her. Trying not to disturb them, Emma went out the door. At last, there was sunlight. Sitting down on the steps, Emma held up the ring and stared at it, turning it over in the light to catch different facets. It was marvellous, even fire-damaged. She ran her thumb over all the bumps and designs in the metal. Some of them had been melted away, while some were still defined enough to feel. She wished she could tell more about it, but she had always been more interested in manuscripts than in medieval artifacts.

The coin, in the sunshine, was much more recognizable. Though tarnished from age, she could tell it was an Anglo-Saxon coin, a sceatta. The mystery of its presence at Wayland's Smithy remained. Emma put them down and stared out at what she could see from the doorstep - she had no interest in going further than the doorstep. Now that she knew where she was, she didn't want to run into Old Man Willow. But what would she do all day? No phone to play with, no music to listen to - well she could try singing, but she'd just end up disappointing herself.

Sitting in the sunshine seemed good enough to her for the time being. With her face tilted up, she drank in the warmth, feeling quite content. Fretful thoughts about her future were determinedly stamped down.

As the sun moved into the trees, she returned to the house and sat with Goldberry again. Now the thoughts of her future were coming to bother her. Would she have to journey with the fellowship? Or stay here with Tom Bombadil? She hoped that she'd find her way home alright. As it darkened outside, there was singing. Glancing over at Goldberry, Emma saw that she was beaming - Tom was returning.

Emma tried to make herself useful and help bring out the food, but was waved away by Goldberry and made to sit down at the table. Steaming dishes with all sorts of wonderful scents were brought out by her and Tom, mostly vegetables with one meat stew that must have been venison, with onions and other scallions. She heaped up her plate and filled two cups, one with wine and one with water. They ate happily, while poems of the adventures of the wild Tom Bombadil were told.

As Emma was now well-rested and more alert, more details were asked of her. What her world was like, how it compared to Middle-earth. She did her best to explain how society was - if she remembered correctly, Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit were supposed to have happened six thousand or so years before the modern ages. This was mentioned to Tom as a with some interest, and they considered the idea that it had in fact been a true claim. Was she truly in the past, or was Middle-earth a created world? She mentioned to him that in her world there was great discussion on whether or not they lived in a computer simulation, which then led to her having to explain what a computer was.

They also discussed the ring. Tom took it in his wide hand and stared down at it with little curiousity. "A trinket for dwarves, eaten by a dragon." He twirled it through his fingers and dropped it back into her hand.

Eaten by a dragon would explain the presence on Dragon Hill. "But who wore it? And why has it made its way back here?"

"Shadows are growing, and many strange things are a foot, both in the forest and on the downs." Goldberry replied.

Her husband agreed. "Darkness gains at the edges of the forest, and wolves are a-wandering. Not long ago did elves pass this way, their time here fading. There may yet be reason for this ring to have come to you, but I have not the answers to such things. Elrond and Mithrandir spend more of their time outside of the bounds of the forest, and will likely know more."

"Mithrandir?" Emma asked. Elrond was familiar enough, but she did not know Mithrandir.

"Of course, Mithrandir, as the Elves call him, though I knew him first as Olorin." This still meant nothing to Emma, and she left it, deciding she would figure it out later.

When the discussion began to wind down, Emma asked a question she had not let herself consider until she could ask the Eldest of Middle-earth.

"Do you know how I can go home?"

Stroking his beard, Tom gave her a warm but sympathetic look. "The forest is my realm, and I know not what lies beyond it, in Middle-earth or other realms. You shall have to travel to Imladris and seek Elrond's wisdom."

That much she could understand. The excitement of going to Rivendell was almost as great as the worry that she didn't know how to go home.

Afterwards, they pulled up their chairs to the hearth, Goldberry with her embroidery, Tom with his pipe, and Emma with what little belongings she had. She'd found a belt and small pouch that she could keep the ring and coin in, and was now very gently going over the ring with a cloth, shining up the parts that had tarnished in the years past and cleaning off the soot. The gem shone dully in the light.

Another question had been bothering her. "Has anyone else been in this house recently?"

"Hmm?" He opened a single blue eye to stare at her, "We've no guests here but you for many moons."

Nazgûl in the Barrow-downs and Tom Bombadil without guests. Now she was able to pinpoint herself in the timeline - Frodo must've just left the Shire and entered the Old Forest.

Not long after did Tom begin reciting poetry. Emma rather liked this whimsical man, who reminded her of her own grandfather, whose wife referred to him fondly as 'a doddering old fool'.

"The shadows where the Mewlips dwell  
Are dark and wet as ink,  
And slow and softly rings their bell  
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare  
To knock upon their door,  
While down the grinning gargoyles stare  
And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river-strand  
The drooping willows weep,  
And gloomily the gorcrows stand  
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,  
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,  
By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,  
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit  
Are deep and dank and cold  
With a single sickly candle lit;  
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;  
Their feet upon the floor  
Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,  
As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack  
Their feeling fingers creep,  
And when they've finished, in a sack  
Your bones they take to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road,  
Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,  
And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows-weed,  
You go to find the Mewlips - and the Mewlips feed."

It was dark and eerie, but well suited to the dark days ahead. Emma thought to herself for a moment, before responding in kind.

"'Twis brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the beregoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  
Beware the Jubjub bird and shun  
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;  
Long time the manxome foe he sought -  
So he rested by the Tumtum tree  
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,  
The Jabberwock with eyes of flame,  
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,  
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through  
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!  
He left it dead and with its head  
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?  
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!  
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"  
He chortled in his joy.

'Twis brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the beregoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe."

Goldberry beamed at her, and Tom chortled and said, "Well spoke," though she had recited it in English, and half the words were nonsense anyways.

Lying in bed later that night, Emma held up both the ring and the coin again in the light of the moon. The ring still seemed to have a spark of fire to it, but now the coin was shining most beautifully, the silver gleaming. She dropped off to sleep, still clutching them.

That night her dreams were filled with thunder and the bloody war cries of men ready to die. Mud and gore flew around her until the darkness descended upon her and she screamed.

After breakfast in the morning, Tom vanished off into the woods and Emma stepped outside with her sword. She figured that she had best get used to it, being in a dangerous ancient world, with no fighting skills whatsoever. Words from a book she had read as a child came to her - "You'll eat, sleep and study with your sword on." If she wanted to be able to protect herself, she'd best start now.

Strapping it to her belt, she practised walking around with it on in front of the house. The weight difference was strange, but not too unfamiliar, as she was used to walking around with her satchel filled with books resting on her hip. But that weight was carried by her shoulder, not her hips.

Next, she practised pulling it out of its sheath and putting it back in, which was much easier said than done. The weight of it would throw her off and she'd tip or occasionally drop it.

One time that she was picking it up, she caught the reflection of her hair in the steel and a word popped into her mind. Beacenfyr, or beacon-fire. In seemed like a good name for a sword wielded by a ginger.

"Beacenfyr." She murmured. Holding up the sword and letting it gleam in the sunlight, Emma addressed it sternly.

"Your name is Beacenfyr now, and you are my sword. Whatever your name was before, and whoever wielded you, that's in the past. Tom told you that you're mine now, and that's that." She tapped the blade, then cursed when it cut her finger open lightly.

A tricky blade, just as Tom had warned.

Sucking on her finger, she jammed the sword back into its sheath. She was done with practising for now.

Instead, she decided to go back inside and take a nap. If she had guessed at the timing right, the hobbits would be arriving later, and she didn't want to sleep through their arrival.


	3. In the House of Tom Bombadil, or Emma Meets the Squad

It was late afternoon when Emma awoke from a dreamless sleep. When she arrived downstairs, she found Goldberry sitting by the fire, surrounded by bowls of waterlilies, no doubt from Tom. They smiled at each other as Emma pulled up a chair beside her and pulled out her sword, giving it a good looking over before polishing it with a cloth.

The two sat in quiet for some time as it darkened, taking turns to hum a tune. Emma had just finished the last bars of 'Easy to Love' when they heard Tom outside, calling in verse to people down the hill.

"Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties!  
Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.  
Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!"

Beside her, Goldberry lifted her voice to let it carry out the door.

"Now let the song begin! Let us sing together  
Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather  
Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,  
Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,  
Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water:  
Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!"

Four small, shaken figures stood at the door, in awe of the golden light that shone from the house. Seeing Goldberry as the ethereal river's daughter must've brought them such ease after a harrowing experience in the forest with Old Man Willow. Emma knew she was nothing to the inhuman beauty of Goldberry, but had the presence of mind to sheath Beacenfyr to make them feel safer.

"Enter, good guests!" Invited Goldberry. They were so very tiny, Emma noticed as she and Goldberry stood to greet them. Hardly taller than an elementary schooler. Goldberry leapt over to them lightly to grasp their hands, but Emma held back, smiling at the hobbits. "Come dear folk! Laugh and be merry! I am Goldberry, daughter of the River. Let us shut out the night! For you are still afraid, perhaps, of mist and tree-shadows and deep water, and untamed things. Fear nothing! For tonight you are under the roof of Tom Bombadil."

"Fair lady Goldberry!" One of the hobbits said joyously, "Fair lady Goldberry! Now the joy that was hidden in the songs we heard is made plain to me.  
O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water!  
O reed by the living pool! Fair River-daughter!  
O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after!  
O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!"

Must be Frodo, Emma decided as Goldberry laughed, charmed. The hobbits and her were ushered to the table and made to sit down, where their attention turned to her.

"Well met!" Another hobbit spoke, "How strange to find one of the Big Folk here! Are you another lost traveller perhaps?"

"Something of the sort." Answered Emma with a smile. "I was found wandering in from the downs." Goldberry was moving around the table, lighting new candles and organizing plates and bowls, and the tired hobbits were once again enraptured by her, which Emma could understand.

From behind the house they could hear Tom singing loudly.

"Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;  
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow."

It suddenly struck Emma what he reminded her of. She wondered what came first - Paddington Bear or the Lord of the Rings? That was something she'd have to Google when she got home.

"Fair lady!" Said Frodo, "Tell me, if my asking does not seem foolish, who is Tom Bombadil?"

Goldberry paused to smile at him. "He is." Not a terribly detailed answer, and the hobbits looked at her in some confusion, before looking to Emma for an answer. She just raised her eyebrows towards Goldberry and shrugged. "He is, as you have seen him. He is the Master of wood, water, and hill."

"Then all this strange land belongs to him?"

"No indeed!" To herself she murmured, though they still heard her, "That would indeed be a burden. The trees and the grasses and all things growing or living in the land belong each to themselves. Tom Bombadil is the Master. No one has ever caught old Tom walking in the forest, wading in the water, leaping on the hill-tops under light and shadow. He has no fear. Tom Bombadil is master."

The master himself walked in the door, having decorated his hair in the orange autumn leaves.

"Here's my pretty lady!" He cried, taking Goldberry's hand, then bowing to the hobbits and Emma, "Here's my Goldberry clothed all in silver-green with flowers in her girdle! And here is wight-wielder Emma, in river blue and hair aflame! Is the table laden? I see yellow cream and honeycomb, and white bread, and butter; milk, cheese, and green herbs and ripe berries gathered. Is that enough for us? Is the supper ready?"

"It is, but the guests perhaps are not?" Reminded Goldberry.

"Tom, Tom! Your guests are tired, and you had near forgot!" Shaking his head, he gestured to the hobbits, "Come now my merry friends, and Tom will refresh you! You shall clean grimy hands, and wash your weary faces; cast off your muddy cloaks and comb out your tangles!"

As the hobbits followed him out, Emma followed Goldberry to help her load the table with food, firmly insisting on it despite her being a guest. Hobbits ate so much that it would far too unfair for Goldberry to carry it alone, and with a laugh, Goldberry relented. They set out the table and soon Tom returned to join them.

The table was laid out with a great feast, far more food than had been out lately, with the addition of four new guests, especially hobbits.

When they returned, clean and light-hearted, they found Tom and Goldberry at each end of the table and Emma happily drinking from a bowl. The hobbits fell upon the table with incredible gusto. Quickly Emma filled up her plate to make sure she got enough to eat while they laid waste to supper.

Soon enough, the cleanliness and good food had seemingly healed them completely and they began to sing light-hearted song about ales and meals of the Shire. Had she a better voice Emma might've joined in, but she opted to not ruin the joyful songs.

It was a meal that Emma could never have imagined back home. As much as her family enjoyed big gatherings, the only song that ever got sung at a meal was 'Happy Birthday', and there was always meat and wine. The meal was light and their drinking bowls were filled with water, and she felt far less hedonistic than she usually did.

When the food was gone and they were all well fed, they all went to the fire but Goldberry, who wished them a restful night and went to her room. Tom, Emma, and the hobbits remained, the men sleepy and Emma still rested from her earlier nap.

Frodo finally broke the silence. "Did you hear me calling, Master, or was it just chance that brought you at that moment?"

"Eh, what?" Tom had been near sleep, "Did I hear you calling? Nay, I did not hear: I was busy singing. Just chance brought me then, if chance you call it." Emma would not call it that, she thought to herself. As he was the defacto deity of the forest, and fate was meddling in the lives of those encountering the ring-bearer. Water-lilies may not have been some innocent decision.

Of course, this discussion resulted in song.

"I had an errand there: gathering water-lilies,  
green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,  
the last ere the the year's end to keep them from the winter,  
to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted.  
Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,  
in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;  
there they open first in spring and and there they linger latest.  
By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,  
fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.  
Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!  
And that proved well for you - for now I shall no longer  
go down deep again along the forest-water,  
not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing  
Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,  
not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter  
dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water."

They all fell silent, staring deep into the fire.

"Tell us, Master, about the Willow-man." Asked Frodo, "What is he? I have never heard of him before."

The other hobbits jolted. "No, don't!" Two of them cried, "Not now! Not until the morning!"

Tom agreed with them. "That is right!" He said, "Now is the time for resting. Some things are ill to hear when the world's in shadow. Sleep till the morning-light, rest on the pillow! Heed no nightly noise! Fear no grey willow!"

He took down the candles and guided them to bed. But Emma did not follow. She stayed sitting by the fire, which had now burned down to embers, deep in thought. She had been very fond of the chapters on the forest and especially the barrows. When she was a child, her mother had read them to her and her brother at night, before her youngest sister was born. Well, she thought, Mum did. Mama had never been one for reading. She was missing them terribly, even though she hadn't seen them in months before they had sent her off at the airport not even a week ago, when Mama had cried and Sara had sulked about not getting to join her since school was not yet out.

Homesickness washed over her, and she finally rose to go to sleep and escape her feelings through dreams.

Stepping around the hobbits she made it to her mattress, and forced herself into slumber, only to be unsettled by sound of battle in her dreams, the cries of men and the cracking of the earth itself.

The next morning was drenched with rain, the clouds heavy in the sky. Tom woke them all, bouncing and whistling about the room, singing out as usual. The hobbits seemed refreshed and eager, but Emma rolled over to face the window, scowling. Rainy mornings like this were meant for slow starts, and she wanted to appreciate as many as possible before they were travelling to Rivendell.

But it wasn't to be so. There was a long day of Tom Bombadil's stories, and so Emma dragged herself out of bed and found a new dress waiting for her, this one less elegant than the one before, and Emma suspected it wasn't one of Goldberry's. It had a shift of fine linen and the outer dress was soft olive-coloured wool, and the style seemed more human than Goldberry's clothes.

When she arrived downstairs, pulling a comb through her hair, Tom was threatening a meagre breakfast to those that took too long to get ready, making Emma laugh. She saw the table set, but no sign of Goldberry, and soon Tom disappeared as well. Nevertheless, she quickly took a seat and began to pile her plate with berries, bread, and butter.

The hobbits soon joined her, and the five sat at the table for some time, peppering each other with questions. Emma soon learned which hobbit was which, aside from Frodo, and soon became fond of the quiet Sam who shared her brother's name. She told him as much and he and her became quick friends when he found out that she had grown up on a farm, and the others had to laughing put a halt to their discussion on variations of roses.

They asked her about her origins, since she spoke such strange Westron, and she had difficulty answering. Eventually she settled for telling them that she was from the south, between the sea and the mountains. When Frodo asked in surprise if she was from Harlindon beyond the Blue Mountains, she rolled with it. In turn, she asked them about the Shire and its people, and was treated to many stories about its people, especially Bilbo Baggins. The yearning look on Frodo's face reminded her that unlike in the movies, it had been many years since he had last seen his uncle.

They finally left the table, hearing the songs of Tom and Goldberry as they went on their daily tasks around the house. They stayed quiet now, the hobbits enjoying peace they hadn't known since they left the Shire, and Emma letting them. She picked up Beacenfyr and belted it around her hips, then picked up her cloak and went outside to walk with it some more. Today was easier, but still strange. Her slippers were left at the house and she walked barefoot down the chalk path to the river, letting her hems get soaked. The scent of the damp forest reminded her of home, and after last night's homesickness it made her happy.

She was out for an hour, sticking to the path, then the edge of the Withywindle, before returning to the house. There was song when she entered, Tom dancing about and entertaining the hobbits with stories and poetry, and she hung her cloak near the fire and listened to him.

"Rings swirled round his boat, he saw the bubbles quiver.  
Tom slapped his oar, smack! at a shadow in the river.  
‘Hoosh! Tom Bombadil! ‘Tis long since last I met you.  
Turned water-boatman, eh? What if I upset you?’

‘What? Why, Whisker-lad, I’d ride you own the river.  
My fingers on your back would set your hide a-shiver.’

‘Pish, Tom Bombadil! I’ll go and tell my mother;  
“Call all our kin to come, father sister, brother!  
Tom’s gone mad as a coot with wooden legs: he is paddling  
Down Withywindle stream, an old tub a-straddling!”

‘I’ll give your otter-fell to the Barrow-wrights. They’ll taw you!  
Then smother you in gold-rings! Your mother if she saw you,  
She’d never know her son, unless ‘twas by a whisker.  
Nay, don’t tease old Tom, until you be far brisker!’

‘Whoosh!’ said otter-lad, river-water spraying  
over Tom’s hat and all; set the boat a-swaying,  
dived down under it, and by the bank lay peering,  
till Tom’s merry song faded out of hearing."

He told them of his boating adventures, of trolls and fairies in the Old Forest. Old Man Willow appeared in his stories when Tom told them of how he and Goldberry met and became man and wife, before he went into darker tales. The dangers of Old Man Willow fell and tales of the Great Barrows rose, telling them of the kings of Cardolan and their fall to the Witch King of Angmar, the kings and queens and princes and warriors who rose again in their tombs and walked with the wights, twisted from the violence of their deaths. Emma shuddered and clutched her sword to her, remembering her encounter with the wight.

Tom pointed to her cloak, the clasp glinting in the fire-light, and to her sword. "There you see the symbols of the last Cardolan king, as borne by our lady Emma, the wight-wielder."

The hobbits startled and looked at her, and she just stared back, uninterested in telling them that she had found the cloak and sword in the barrows while she was screaming, naked and afraid. The fact that she had the last king's artifacts was news to her.

When they returned to listening to Tom, he had gone further back in time, singing of great and ancient seas and starlight, of times without a sun when only the elves walked under trees and sang, and there were no others.

Except Tom Bombadil.

At last, Frodo asked him. "Who are you, Master?"

"Eh, what? Don't you know my name yet? That's the only answer." He sat up, "Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless? But you are young and I am old. Eldest, that's what I am. Mark my words, my friends: Tom was here before the river and the trees; Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn. He made paths before the Big People, and saw the little People arriving. He was here before the Kings and the graves and the Barrow-wights. When the Elves passed westward, Tom was here already, before the seas were bent. He knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside."

They all looked up as a shadow passed by, but it was only Goldberry with a candle, lighting up the night that had now fallen in the Old Forest. She announced the end of the rain, and Tom bounded up, crying for food and drink.

The two set out the table, laying out even more food than the night before, given more time to prepare for their extra guests.

During supper, the hobbits sang again, which followed with Goldberry singing beautiful songs from the hills to the water. She asked Emma for a song, but was refused - although Emma had heard that her voice was powerful, it was more inclined towards heavy metal than the sweet tunes Goldberry had just sung. Next to her, Sam was pestered for a poem, which he also awkwardly declined. The two sat in a silent camaraderie amidst all the singing.

When their hostess bid them good night, they all retired to the fireside. Tom questioned the hobbits, showing that he knew much of the Shire, primarily from another hobbit, Farmer Maggot, and knew of the hobbit's movements from and from the elves. Soon Frodo was telling him all about Bilbo and his fears of the journey ahead, and about his flight from the Shire, mentioning the Riders. A chill ran up Emma's back, knowing that she had seen them only days before they had arrived to hunt for the ring.

She watched them idly, drinking from a pot of dandelion tea that Goldberry had kindly brewed for her. The men were soon playing around with the One Ring as if it were a casual trinket - she averted her eyes so that she could avoid its call, if it called to her at all. There was a burning sensation on her hip and she looked down in confusion, only to realize that it was coming from inside the pouch. Opening it, she found that her silver coin was safe but that the Dwarven ring appeared to be lit, as if there was a fire within the gem stone. It was clearly affected by the presence of the One. Tom glanced over at her and their eyes met knowingly as she pulled the the drawstrings of the pouch shut. At least it wasn't affecting her mind - perhaps she was not dwarf enough in its opinion. Frodo took the One Ring back from Tom and kept quiet, but Emma kept her eye on him, waiting for the moment.

It arrived. Just as Tom was telling a story about some odd badgers, Frodo slipped on the ring and vanished. She choked on her tea as it happened, not expecting it to be as startling as it was. For all that she had read about it in the books, to see someone the size of a grade-schooler simply disappear into thin air and leave nothing behind was disturbing. She looked about, trying to see any evidence of him, but he was obviously trying to be sneaky.

But Tom Bombadil's eyes could not be so easily slipped. "Hey there! Hey! Come Frodo, there! Where you be a-going? Old Tom Bombadil's not as blind as that yet! Take off your golden ring! Your hand's more fair without it!" Remind her to mention that to the hobbit in five or so months, she thought to herself. "Come back! Leave your game and sit down beside me! We must talk a while more, and think about the morning. Tom must to teach you the right road, and keep your feet from wandering."

There was a laugh from empty space near the door and Frodo suddenly reappeared. With that disturbance behind them, they moved on to discussing the route they would be taking to Bree, Emma joining in now, as this concerned her as well. The hobbits seemed glad to find out that a big person would be travelling with them, especially one with a sword and Tom's good opinion. She did not tell them her reasons for going to Rivendell, and they did not press. And though Emma was sad to leave this safe haven, she knew that she had to journey east to Rivendell and find answers to her mysterious appearance in Middle-earth. But the road would be long and full of dangers. At least they would soon have Aragorn, she consoled herself, but the thought of running into the Riders again was discomforting.

As well, the thought of what they would be experiencing the next day.

"Keep to the green grass. Don't you go a-meddling with old stone or cold Wights or prying in their houses," She ignored Tom's pointed look at her as he spoke, "Unless you be strong folk with hearts that never falter!" He repeated this twice, "And should you even need to pass by their homes, do so from the west."

Finally, he taught them a poem that would call him to their aid if they were ever in trouble, which Emma made extra care to memorize.

"Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!  
By water, wood and hill, by the reed and willow,  
By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us!  
Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!"

As the hobbits made their way to bed, Emma stayed behind to speak to Tom. "I know you can go no further, as master of these lands, but do you have any messages that I might pass on to Lord Elrond and Mithrandir, regarding the coming darkness?"

He thought for some time over that, before shaking his head. "No, no, there's no need of any of that. Tom has his lands, and they will be held to the last. But should the darkness come to pass…" Hesitation gripped him, Emma saw, and he sadly plucked a wilting lily from a basin near the hearth, 

"So Tom Bombadil was the First  
He should be the Last  
When the last rain has fell  
When the last leaf touches grass.  
Hey, ho, Tom Bombadillo  
By water, by hill, by wood  
Should the darkness take the land  
Tom will be the Last who stood."

Emma went quietly as she made her way to bed, knowing what lay ahead but equally knowing that there would be no way to prevent it. For all her reading in her youth, the fanfiction, the novels, the studies, there was one thing that she was sure of:

No matter her presence, no matter how it hurt people she may care about, the story would have to go on.


	4. Fog on the Barrow-Downs, or Emma Joins the Skeleton War

There was no escape from the darkness in the tomb, and she stumbled through it vaguely, blindly. A sword was clutched in her hand, which had new callouses. Her lungs ached as she roared, a cry filled with rage and strength and mourning, and with a great crack, the earth split above her and sunlight spilled into her tomb.

Emma woke first the next morning, just before the sun rose, her dream slipping away without another thought. Quietly, so as not to disturb the hobbits, and without changing from her nightshirt, she crept to the doorway and went looking for Tom or Goldberry.

She found Tom at the table, filling a leather travelling bag in front of him with food and a canteen of water. Already inside were extra pairs of underwear, a packet with what looked like hairpins sticking out of it, a comb, and Goldberry's blue dress.

"Hi ho! A merry morning to you!" He greeted her warmly. "Was just putting together a bag for your travels! Can't send you off with nothing, now, can I?"

Realizing that it was for her, Emma protested, telling him that they had already done too much for her, and she could never take one of Goldberry's dresses.

"She insists. Carrying naught but a cloak and sword would not much help you out of the forest, my dearie! The least we could do is send you on your way with more than you came with." He said simply, then waved a hand towards a chair with the olive dress on it. "This one as well. It will serve you better on the journey."

Touching the bag lightly, she bit her lip sheepishly. "Would be possible to ask you for one more thing?"

"Depends on the nature of what you're asking." He responded, but his eyes were smiling.

Four male hobbits travelling with a Woman would draw attention to a journey meant to be secret, she explained. While a man would still be unusual, it wouldn't be of note. "Do you possibly have some pants and a shirt that might fit me?"

Tom laughed uproariously at her request. "You wish to journey as a man? Very well, very well! Lady of Cardolan, took up her sword and dressed a lord!"

Soon he produced worn wool pants and a shirt that, while loose, fit her well enough for journey. A belt was added, both to hold up the pants and carry her sword. Boots as well came out - the soles had been repaired a number of times, but they were sturdy enough.

She bathed quickly before dressing, and when she returned Tom had left and the hobbits were at the table. Joining them, Emma helped herself to sweet fruits and oats. They shared a laugh at Emma's attire, the oddness of a girl in men's clothing, until Merry reminded them of a story about Pippin in his sister's dress. Despite this, they were quieter than usual, Sam in particular, and when they all went outside, they found the hobbits' ponies antsy and ready to go, stamping in impatience. Although she had been offered one, her wariness of horses and its small size caused her to decline. Her cloak draped heavily over shoulders and hair braided and tucked away, Emma felt as anxious as the ponies. She remembered a good amount of the journey ahead and was not eager to face it.

Perhaps she could stay in Bree and go no further, she considered, but the ring in her pocket said otherwise. Besides, she'd grown fond of the hobbits, their singing and joy. For all that they were older than her, both in hobbit and human years, she felt a maternal protectiveness over them, who had never left the Shire and had lived a quiet, charmed life. At least until they found Strider, and made it to Rivendell, she'd do her best to keep them safe.

Tom called to them from the house and waved them off, wishing them speed and safety.

As the hobbits rode their ponies along the trail Tom had directed them to, Emma striding beside them. It wasn't long until they had reached the last slope when Frodo stopped of a sudden. "Goldberry! My fair lady, clad all in silver green!" Such a sweet, poetic boy, she sighed to herself. "We have never said farewell to her, nor seen her since the evening!" He made to return to the House of Tom Bombadil when a clear call reached them.

At the top of the slope was the shimmering figure of Goldberry, her golden hair drifting beautifully in the wind. When they reached her, the hobbits all bowed deeply, while Emma attempted an awkward curtsy. But Goldberry instead waved her arm, insisting they take in views from the hill. While Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked west, back towards the Shire, Emma faced east with a frown, towards the rise of the Barrowdowns. Being in Tom's house had chased away many of the terrors she had experienced there, they would be back - both the Barrow-wights and the Nazgûl.

Although the breeze was fortifying for the halflings, it sent a shiver down her spine. Goldberry spoke sweetly to them, bidding them a safe and swift journey, and giving Frodo a special blessing. Before Emma joined them, she pardoned herself to Goldberry and threw her arms around her.

"I could never thank you enough for the kindness you and Tom had shown me." She whispered hoarsely, "May the growing darkness never reach this forest."

Although initially shocked by the display of affection from her quietest guest, Goldberry smiled and touched her hand to the Woman's face. "May your hand be steady and your heart true, dear Emma. I fear your journey may be longer than any of us would wish."

Those words sat heavy on Emma's heart as she followed Frodo down the hill. They looked up once more to see Goldberry waving to them in the light, before she vanished back over the hill.

They wound their way through the woods until they left the forest behind them and reached new plains and hills. There was no water to be found, and as the breeze died, the sun grew even warmer. Before noon, Emma had pulled off her cloak and shoved it into her bag, loping along the ponies in only her shirt and pants. What was a few more freckles on her already excessively freckled skin? When mid-day arrived, they had found themselves on a flat hill with a low hollow, reminding Emma of Uffington Castle, and rode across to the end to look and see how far they'd come. There was a valley that travelled to the north and seemed to lead out of the valley.

"Look at that!" Pippin grinned, "We'll be away by nightfall!"

"That is a line of trees," Merry pointed to the north, "And that must mark the road. All along it for many leagues east of the Bridge there are trees growing. Some say they were planted in the old days."

"Splendid! If we make as good going this afternoon as we have done this morning, we shall have left the Downs before the Sun sets and be jogging on in search of a camping place." But as Frodo turned to the east, his face fell. Emma knew what he was feeling, the sense of foreboding that those hills and monoliths gave off, the same as she had felt when she had stumbled out of Wayland's Smithy and into unfamiliar downs. At least he was among friends, she thought grimly, and not naked.

But now so was she. For all that she knew of what would come when night fell, the sun was bright and their travels seemed closer to an end. There was a single stone in the center of the hill's depression that cast no shadow. It was no doubt a simple indication of the time, noon, but it was eerie in it's own way. They ate a small meal and drank some of the water that Tom given them. The heat of the autumn sun was taking its toll on her and she was attempting to use the hair pins in her bag to put up hair but was failing miserably to the delight of her companions.

Merry came over and sat behind her, pulling out her current braid. "Don't you worry," he assured her, "My cousins taught me how to braid quite well; it was that or have them use me as their doll instead of Pip."

"You abandoned me to them!" Cried out Pippin as Frodo and Sam laughed. Emma just sighed with a smile. For all her maternal instincts, it appeared that the hobbits were just as much interested in taking care of their wayward Woman. She let Merry pull and pin away at her hair until he hummed in pride and let go. Her was off her neck and didn't feel like it was letting go anytime soon.

They sang again, mostly to keep off the uneasy feeling that had come on them since they reached the barrow-downs. Even Emma joined in, doot-doo-ing her way through the melodies of various Christmas carols. Each took a turn to go relieve themselves, the hobbits in pairs and Emma by herself. The hobbits gave her some leaves they had picked out for the purpose and left to have a distinctly uncomfortable moment behind a hill. When they all returned, they did their best to relax and enjoy the warmth of the sun.

It wasn't long before Emma found herself surrounded by four sleeping hobbits.

That was when it began to hit her: the true meaning of changing the plot. If she woke them now, she knew that they could reach the road by nightfall, and not face the wights. It was unnecessary - these scenes were cut from the movie, she reminded herself. The barrows were never even considered. The hobbits could pick up their swords any place along the way, she tried to justify, pacing along the edge of the hill, her eyes flickering between the barrows to the east and the new shadow cast by the center stone.

What would even happen if she woke them? Would Jay and Acacia, Protectors of the Plot Continuum, fly in out of nowhere and take her down? Would Miss Cam and her mini-balrogs tackle her and drag her off to Fanfiction University to educate her on not messing with the plot? If the situation wasn't her terrifying reality, she'd be cackling right now.

Their faces were so peaceful as they slept, and her stupid heart beat out her brain. She would wake them and spare them of a little darkness on their journey, Tolkien purists be damned.

But it was the instant that she stepped towards them that she slipped, falling backwards over the east side of the hill and rolling down, blacking out as the last thing she saw was the looming barrows and the stone teeth.

Small hands slapped her awake and she looked up to see the hobbits staring down at her in pure worry. The sun was over the hill now and there was a mist settling over the grass.

"That's what I get for trying to mess up the plot…" She murmured in English, sitting up slowly as Sam grabbed at her shoulder. Other than a pounding head and dull back ache, she didn't find herself in any true pain.

"We have to hurry," Frodo insisted, "We have lingered too long here!"

"I was coming to wake you," Emma tried to explain in Westron, but was shushed as they led her back up the hill. When she reached the top edge she realized how lucky she was to have been found at all. Fog had surrounded them on all sides, leaving them like an island floating above it all. Her own heart sank at the prospect of passing through it, but the others still had courage.

Sam stood by her as pulled her cloak from her bag and helped her to pin it on. "I've got an ill feeling about this, Miss Smith. Like we're mice with a cat's eye watching us."

"I feel it too." She said simply, then tapped her sword. "I'll walk at the back, where I can see you all. Between the two of us we'll keep them safe."

It felt like false bravado to her, but it calmed Sam, which was more important. As they travelled down into the fog bank, the hobbits leading their ponies in a single line with her at the back behind Merry, she reviewed what little she knew of swordplay.

Keep it simple: no wide swings or over the head attacks. Medieval swords were heavy and equally good for bruising and cutting. Most important: pointy end goes into the bad guy.

With the thickness of the fog, she couldn't see anyone past Pippin. There was a strange sound behind her and she spun to look. It had sounded like footsteps, but the fog was too thick for her to see. Drawing her sword, Emma turned to tell the hobbits to stop, but found they were gone.

She swore. Even though this was part of the story, a panic was rising in her chest. Aragorn never lost the hobbits! Sure Aragorn was an 80-something year old Aryan wet-dream who was trained in tracking and she was just a 20-something academic former farm girl, but still! She called out their names, but the fog seemed to swallow up her voice.

A deep voice called to her from close ahead. The voice of a Barrow-wight, she knew, calling her to its grave.

"That's a very poor impression of a hobbit." She snapped at it.

"Come heeeere…" The deep and hoarse voice moaned.

"Eat my ass. You come here!" Holding up her sword, Emma stood her ground, keeping herself aware of any sound nearby, hoping to hear one of the hobbits but also being wary of any approaching wights.

Something touched her foot and she looked down to find a zombie grasping at her boot.

No movie or TV show could have ever prepared her for the moment when she saw a zombie for the first time. As a kid she had seen decaying corpses before, deer in the woods, the occasional escaped and unfound sheep, and roadkill all along the roads. But a human corpse, with pale, sunken skin, bony hands, and milk white eyes, dressed in old rotting cloth, that was moving?

"Ohh, nope!" She shrieked and lashed out with her foot, kicking the wight in the face. Her survival instincts took stock of her sword and she impulsively stabbed it downwards, stabbing the creature through the back and into the dirt. Stabbing it was both harder and easier than she'd ever considered as it passed through ancient sinew and bone, cleanly through the skin but there were still organs to push through. Bile came up in her throat and she stumbled back, pulling the sword with her as she vomited onto the grass.

Distantly she heard cries in the mist, some calling for Frodo, in the direction she was facing. The wights would be taking them, she knew, and despite her nausea she ran forward, determined to follow them as far as she could. Her plowing forward led her up and over a hill. Deep voices again called to her but she sprinted past them, reaching the bottom as quick as she could without falling.

When her foot touched flat ground, she heard Frodo's voice above her.

"Where are you?"

Before she could answer, a cold hand clutched at her cloak and she spun around, sword out and ready to slash open any new wights. The wight's pale face was far, far too close for comfort and she put all strength into her sword swing.

Unfortunately her sword was not angled correctly and instead of slicing into the wight's body she only smacked it instead. It was enough to throw it down, and she lunged forward to stab it through the chest. It was only slightly less awful than the first time.

At the top of the hill Frodo let out a strangled cry and fell silent. Emma made to run up the hill and save him, but something grabbed her ankle and she slammed into the ground, sword thumping down a foot away. The wight was lying behind her, a gaping, bloodless wound in its chest as it sneered at her.

"Are you fucking with me?!" She cried out in rage. Pulling her sword over she slashed at it as it pushed itself up and towards her, aiming for its neck. This time she managed to hack into it, splitting its neck in two. Its hand slackened and she pulled free, swallowing the new bile in her throat.

Backing up onto the hill, she put her head between her knees and gasped at the air, her sword clutched tightly in her hands.

"I'm heeeere…" A voice called out from inside the hill.

"Like I care." She muttered.

"I am waiting for you!"

"Keep waiting." Standing up, Emma began to circle the hill. No more wights appeared to attack her, thankfully, likely satisfied with Frodo and his friends. Two large shadows loomed in the fog and Emma reached out her hands to feel cold stone. A monolith stood on either side of a smaller rectangular stone, and she was reminded sharply of the barrow she stumbled out of only days ago.

She pushed and pulled hard against the smaller stone, but it would not budge. There was no way she would be able to use just brute strength here. Ransacking her brain, she tried to remember any way to move large stones, ones that could be done with medieval tools, but nothing that wouldn't require rope, shovels, and at least five strong men and women came to mind.

She kicked at the dirt around the bottom of the stone, hoping that it would give her leeway in moving it, but the ground was too hard to move. What she wouldn't give for the same adrenaline that had gripped her last time!

It was impossible to tell how long she worked at the stone and the dirt. With what little light there was she could see the blood and dirt that covered her hands. Grunting in frustration, she slammed her fists against the unmoved stone.

After a moment, she spoke out in a wavering voice,

"Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!  
By water, wood and hill, by the reed and willow,  
By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us!  
Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!"

There was silence. And then, footsteps.

"Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,  
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.  
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:  
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster."

"Thank goodness!" Emma gasped as Tom broke through fog, "You heard me!"

"Hard not to hear you with these old ears!" Though his words were light, his face was grim. "Cold wights have taken them, have they?"

"They fell asleep," She explained breathlessly, "I tried to wake them, to break the plotline, but I slipped and fell unconscious. We were separated in the fog."

But Tom was already busy at the stone. "No matter, no matter. These things happen. I am impressed by your stout heart, though, dear Emma, to escape being captured."

"I have a sword."

"Takes more than a sword to fend off wights. Takes heart, and light." He patted her gently on her shoulder. "Fear not, wight-wielder, wight-fiend, for sunrise is here."

The night had passed in terror for her, but it had passed quickly. Emma looked up in astonishment to see the sun just beginning to burn through the mist, the light with which she could now see.

"Ah. The elf-friend calls." She turned just in time to watch him call out a word, and with a great rumble the stone door fell away, and light beamed into the hole, followed by Tom poking his head inside. Removing his hat, Tom stooped into the barrow, Emma throwing herself through behind them, gasping in horror at the sight of the hobbits, dressed like small kings of old with a sword over their neck.

Tom sang out, "Get out, you old Wight! Vanish in the sunlight!  
Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing,  
Out into the barren lands far beyond the mountains!  
Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty!  
Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness,  
Where gates stand for ever shut, till the world is mended."

There was a crash and a great shriek at the other end of the chamber, and if she had looked, Emma might've seen what was left of the wight that had attacked them. But she was too busy bending over Merry, Pippin, and Sam, tapping at their faces the way they had at her's the day before.

"'Come, Emma, friend Frodo!" said Tom. "Let us get out on to clean grass! You must help me bear them." They each carried a hobbit out into the sunlight. Tom went back in to carry out the barrow treasure, while Frodo and Emma removed the jewels from their friends.

When he returned to them, he raised his right hand.

"Wake now my merry tads! Wake and hear me calling!  
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;  
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.  
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!"

Emma praised every god she could think of, from the Almighty to Wayland and even Jesus as the hobbits awoke and sprang up.

"What in the name of wonder? Of course, I remember!" Cried Merry. "The men of Carn Dûm came on us at night, and we were worsted. Ah! the spear in my heart! No! No!" He was clutching at his chest as his eyes opened. "What am I saying? I have been dreaming. Where did you get to, Frodo?"

"I thought I was lost, but I don't want to speak of it." Answered Frodo as Emma helped Merry remove the golden circlet around his brow. "Let us think of what we are to do now! Let us go on!"

Sam pulled off his belt and circlet flinging them to the ground. "Dressed up like this, sir?" He asked, looking around helplessly. "Where are my clothes?"

Tom told them that their clothes were lost as he bounded over the hill, lifting their spirits just by being himself. With some amusement, despite having almost died, Pippin asked him why.

"You've found yourselves again, out of the deep water. Clothes are but little loss, if you escape from drowning. Be glad, my merry friends, and let the warm sunlight heal now heart and limb! Cast off these cold rags! Run naked on the grass, while Tom goes a-hunting!"

"Please, don't run naked." Emma implored them as he ran off singing to the south.

Merry looked up at her. "What happened to you Emma? You had been behind me, then you were gone!"

"I heard something. I turned to look, then you were gone." She replied simply.

The hobbits basked in the sun, revelling in the warmth after their time in the tomb, Emma laughing at them as she rested in the grass, ignoring the aches she had built up during the night.

When Tom returned, he led six ponies rather than five, introducing them to his own pony Fatty Lumpkin, which was one of the greatest names Emma had ever heard.

"Here are your ponies, now! They've more sense than you wandering hobbits have - more sense in their noses. For they sniff danger ahead which you walk right into; and if they run to save themselves, then they run the right way. You must forgive them all; for though their hearts are faithful, to face fear of Barrow-wights is not what they were made for. See, here they come again, bringing all their burdens!"

Delightedly the hobbits dressed, Emma turning her back to them and instead looking to Tom. He didn't even let her speak.

"These are dangerous times, Wight-fiend. No need for gratitude now, as the darkness grows it will be kindness and light and staves it off."

'Where does that other old animal, that Fatty Lumpkin, come from?" Questioned Frodo, looking over the old pony.

"He's mine." Tom answered. "My four-legged friend; though I seldom ride him, and he wanders often far, free upon the hillsides. When your ponies stayed with me, they got to know my Lumpkin; and they smelt him in the night, and quickly ran to meet him. I thought he'd look for them and with his words of wisdom take all their fear away. But now, my jolly Lumpkin, old Tom's going to ride. Hey! he's coming with you, just to set you on the road; so he needs a pony. For you cannot easily talk to hobbits that are riding, when you're on your own legs trying to trot beside them."

They were all relieved to hear that Tom would be joining them, but only as far as the border of the Barrowdowns.

"I've got things to do," he said, "My making and my singing, my talking and my walking, and my watching of the country. Tom can't be always near to open doors and willow-cracks. Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting." He nodded to Emma's hands, "Best see to those before we go on our way."

Frodo gasped when he saw her hands, scraped up and dirty. "Good Emma, your poor fingers!" With a canteen of water and a handkerchief he began to wash away the filth. "How did you do this?"

"O Lady Emma, wields the sword of Cardolan!  
Fought the Barrow-wights who had the hobbits stolen!  
Cold men and stone and dirt could not defy her!  
Bearing old King's sigil, she fought in mist with fire!"

Tom frowned. "No, such words suit me not. I shall leave such tales for elves and men."

The hobbits looked at her, but she avoided their gazes. Tom could pretty it up all he liked, but scrambling in the dirt to fight zombies was nothing pretty or noble and was an experience she would prefer to never again have. The image of the Barrow-wight with the missing head and hole in its chest came back to it and she smothered the thought with images of kittens with stout legs and adorable dumb faces.

After her hands had been tended to, they ate heartily of what was left of their rations, while Tom sorted through the treasure. Out of curiousity, Emma joined him, looking over the golden trinkets. Tom chose a stunning brooch with blue stones for Goldberry, remembering its bearer, while Emma found a simple silver circlet that fit her head well, and Tom pressed a few silver and gold coins in her hands. They found daggers that would suit the hobbits well, leaf-shaped and beautifully made with gold and red damask.

"Old knives are long enough as swords for hobbit-people," Tom told them, "Sharp blades are good to have, if Shire-folk go walking, east, south, or far away into dark and danger. These were made by men who fought the dark lord in years past, but were defeated by the men of Angmar, led by the evil lord of Carn Dûm."

"The Witch King!" Emma gasped, remembering from the books the name of Nazgûl's leader.

They all stared at her. "Indeed," murmured Tom, "Few now remember these men, yet still some go wandering, sons of forgotten kings walking in loneliness, guarding from evil things folk that are heedless."

Rangers, thought Emma, but this time she didn't say anything. Letting slip the Witch King was enough - she'd be on her guard again, to reveal as little as possible about herself to the hobbits. Her foreknowledge of their journey would bring them no comfort, she knew.

Although her feet ached, she still did not ride as they went on their way towards the north path, but she cast yearning eyes at the fifth pony, wishing he was just a bit taller.

When they looked back at the barrow, the treasure on top shone like golden fire in the sun. A vision suddenly occurred to Emma, of fire in the Barrowdowns and the sound of swords and cracking stone. But it was gone almost as soon as it had come, and she shook her head of it, picking up her pace to escape this place sooner.

They approached the road slower than they'd thought, but steadily. What they had thought were trees instead were bushes, which lined the borders of what was once Cardolan, according to Tom. In curiousity, Emma followed it with her eyes, to see the edges of the place, not noticing the glances of the hobbits.

When the reached the edges, Merry insisted that Emma ride the fifth pony at last, and she awkwardly rode side-saddle as they all galloped to the end of the path at last, over puddles of rainwater, splattering mud as they went. It was hard on her ribs, still bruised, and gave her cramps, but it was worth it to be out of the Barrows.

"Well, here we are again at last!" said Frodo. "I suppose we haven't lost more than two days by my short cut through the Forest! But perhaps the delay will prove useful - it may have put them off our trail."

It took a moment for Emma to realize that he meant the Nazgûl. Fear settled into the eyes of the others at the thought of their return, and even she felt a creeping up her back, thinking of their short pursuit of her on her arrival in Middle-earth.

Hesitantly, Pippin asked if they might come after them that night, but Tom assured them it was unlikely.

Emma and the halflings were reluctant to leave without him. He had been a safeguard against evil outside the Shire for Frodo and his friends. For Emma, he had been a constant since she had come to this world - the only constant other than her sword and cloak.

"Tom will give you good advice, till this day is over (after that your own luck must go with you and guide you): four miles along the Road you'll come upon a village, Bree under Bree-hill, with doors looking westward. There you'll find an old inn that is called The Prancing Pony. Barliman Butterbur is the worthy keeper. There you can stay the night, and afterwards the morning will speed you upon your way. Be bold, but wary! Keep up your merry hearts, and ride to meet your fortune!

Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.  
Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting!"

With that he left them to cross the country into Bree.

Emma stared after him until he left, feeling cold and lonely without his presence. A hand touched her elbow, and she looked down to see Frodo smiling softly up at her.

She wasn't alone here anymore.

"I am sorry to take leave of Master Bombadil," Sighed Sam, 'He's a caution and no mistake. I reckon we may go a good deal further and see naught better, nor queerer. But I won't deny I'll be glad to see this Prancing Pony he spoke of. I hope it'll be like The Green Dragon away back home! What sort of folk are they in Bree?" There was a hopeful sound in his voice at the thought of good ale and hot food.

Merry answered him. "There are hobbits in Bree," he said, "As well as Big Folk. I daresay it will be homelike enough. The Pony is a good inn by all accounts. My people ride out there now and again."

"It may be all we could wish, but it is outside the Shire all the same. Don't make yourselves too much at home!" Frodo reminded them. "Please remember - all of you - that the name of Baggins must not be mentioned. I am Mr. Underhill, if any name must be given."

Emma lifted her hood. "There is no need to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary. I will play the part of a man until we reach the inn, to fend off any questions or curiousity."

With everyone's agreement, the hobbits mounted their ponies and moved forward, Emma behind them wrapped in her cloak. As they passed through the bushes that lined the border she paused, hesitant to go ahead. There was an odd shadow in the hedge, and for half a breath she could've sworn it was a Black Rider.

"Come on, _Mr._ Smith! There's ale to be had!" Called Pippin.

So Emma stepped past the boundaries of Cardolan, the Barrow-downs, and Tom's land, and pressed on further into Middle-earth.


	5. The Sign of the Prancing Pony and Strider, or Emma is Going to Fist-Fight the Heir of Isildur

The town of Bree reminded Emma dearly of home, surrounded by empty land and lit only by soft lights in the windows of the inhabitants. Merry told them of Bree as they approached, how it was inhabited by stout, friendly men who had been there since before the kings of old, and carried on long after their death.

Many men and hobbits passed through, as well as elves and dwarves. For all that it was a small town, it was likely the most lively and cosmopolitan of the many cities of Middle-earth.

The people there, men and hobbit-folk, rarely left Bree or the surrounding lands, Merry explained, even the little folk rarely made it out to the Shire.

It was a sign of the coming isolation, Emma realised, that occurred in times when roads were dangerous and travellers were scarce. Like the end of Rome, when peoples scattered and fought and once great roads fell into disuse. Were they Tolkien's inspiration, she wondered, or did Rome echo the fall of the great kingdoms of Men, in the way that history echoed throughout time?

The stars were shining brightly as they approached the gate, much like the stars that Emma saw back home on the farm, But stranger, as there was less light pollution in the sky, and she could see the stars all throughout, constellations she had never even known.

She was still staring at the sky when they reached the West-gate, and turned away, keeping her face from the eyes of the gatekeeper, who had been startled by their knocking.

"What do you want, and where do you come from?" He held up a lantern to see them better.

"We are making for the inn here." Answered Frodo. "We are journeying east and cannot go further tonight."

"Hobbits! Four hobbits and a man! And what's more, out of the Shire by their talk." Opening the gate, he allowed them through. "We don't often see Shire-folk riding on the Road at night, let alone in the company of a Man," he continued as they paused by the door, Emma keeping the hood of her cloak low as he peered at her. "You'll pardon my wondering what business takes you away east of Bree! What may your names be, might I ask?"

Frodo clearly didn't care for him. "Our names and our business are our own, and this does not seem a good place to discuss them."

"Your business is your own, no doubt, but it's my job to ask questions after nightfall."

"We are hobbits from Buckland, and this is our friend who is travelling with us from Harlindon. We have a fancy to travel and stay at the inn here, and Mr. Smith came with us for protection on the road." Responded Merry, "I am Mr. Brandybuck. Is that enough for you? The Bree-folk used to be fair to travellers, or so I had heard."

The man huffed at them. "All right, all right! I meant no offence. But you'll find maybe that more folk than old Harry at the gate will be asking you questions. There's queer folk about," he leered at Emma, trying to peer under her hood. "If you go on to The Pony, you'll find you're not the only guests."

He continued to watch them as they went by, and Emma made sure to keep her sword out of sight. Although it was night, she did her best to take in Bree. The city was quiet, and many of the lights that had guided them from the Downs had been put out as the residents went to bed. The smell of damp earth, and piss and manure filled up her nose and though it was disgusting, in a way it was also similar to home, and the fields of cows that surrounded her family's sheep farm. She was bombarded suddenly by feelings of both comfort and homesickness.

Beside her on his pony, Frodo seemed fretful, and to escape her own emotions she roughly patted his back. He jolted, looking up at her, then smiled as they made their way up the hill.

Sam, too, did not seem at ease. Their new companion from the forest was well enough as Big Folk go, but to be surrounded in their town was clearly putting him on edge. "We surely aren't going to stay here for the night, are we, sir? If there are hobbit-folk in these parts, why don't we look for some that would be willing to take us in? It would be more homelike."

"What's wrong with the inn?" Asked Frodo, "Tom Bombadil recommended it. I expect it's homelike enough."

As they approached it, it seemed cheery enough. Again, Emma was reminded of home, of a local ramshackle bed and breakfast, and this time feelings of comfort won out over homesickness. They eagerly came up to the door as music played inside, under the sign of The Prancing Pony. She was a bit disheartened to see that for her new knowledge of Westron that Tom had bestowed on her, she could not read the letters.

They led the ponies under the archway before the inn and left them in the yard, as they went up the stairs to the door, Frodo nearly ran into a portly red-faced man carrying a tray of mugs. The man brushed aside Frodo's attempt to speak with him, promising to be back in a moment as bustled through another door with the beer.

It didn't take him long, and he lowered himself down to be closer to Frodo. "Good evening, little master! What may you be wanting?'"

"Beds for five, one for a man, and stabling for five ponies, if that can be managed. Are you Mr. Butterbur?"

"That's right! Barliman is my name. Barliman Butterbur at your service! You're from the Shire, eh?" He seemed to be in some thought. "Hobbits! Now what does that remind me of?" Butterbur looked over at their cloaked companion suspiciously. "And you are?"

Pushing back her hood, Emma put on her best 'trust me' smile. "I am Miss Smith of Harlindon. Forgive my attire; it is dangerous for a woman on the road, even with such good companions."

The innkeeper furrowed his brow, but not at her. "'Tis true, there are many a queer men about." The queer men weren't really the ones she was worried about, but she kept her mouth shut as he turned back to the hobbits. "And might I ask your names, sir?"

"Mr. Took and Mr. Brandybuck," said Frodo, "and this is Sam Gamgee. My name is Underhill."

"There now!" Butterbur snapped his fingers. "It's gone again! But it'll come back, when I have time to think. I'm run off my feet; but I'll see what I can do for you. We don't often get a party out of the Shire nowadays, least of all with a woman of Lindon, and I should be sorry not to make you welcome. But there is such a crowd already in the house tonight as there hasn't been for long enough. It never rains but it pours, we say in Bree." He called for his assistant, a hobbit named Nob, and sent him off to find the stable boy and care for the ponies.

"Well, now, what was I going to say?" He grumbled to himself. "One thing drives out another, so to speak. I'm that busy tonight, my head is going round. There's a party that came up the Greenway from down South last night - and that was strange enough to begin with. Then there's a travelling company of dwarves going West come in this evening. And now there's you. If you weren't hobbits, I doubt if we could house you. But we've got a room or two in the north wing that were made special for hobbits, when this place was built. On the ground floor as they usually prefer; round windows and all as they like it. For the miss we have a rather small room nearby - cramped, but well enough and with a lock on the door." She nodded in appreciation. "I hope you'll be comfortable. You'll be wanting supper, I don't doubt. As soon as may be. This way now!"

Butterbur brought them into a cozy parlour with low tables and chairs, ones that even Emma felt cozy in. They all laughed when she pulled off her boots and threw them across the room, hoisting her legs over the side of the chair. The two days of journey had left her aching all over, and she'd be damned if she was leaving this spot any time soon. They only coerced her out to see where the bedrooms were, and the bath. She eagerly flung herself into the small tub that had been brought into her cramped room, legs back over the side as she scrubbed the dirt of the Barrows off with a rough brush and some fatty soap. Her hands stung from the scrapes and cuts, and looking down she saw deep purple and red bruises blooming across her lower ribs.

Merry and Pippin nearly broke the door down calling her for supper and she left the bath unwilling, wiping herself down with a rough linen towel before dressing in her olive dress. She left the belt off, planning to eat until she had a charming little food baby she would name Tomberry.

Nob and Butterbur soon brought them a feast, with thick, hot soups and fresh bread, cold cuts of meat (likely ham), ripe cheese and a blackberry tart. As much as she had enjoyed the vegetarian meals in the house of Tom Bombadil, this food was more what she was used to. She gorged herself on the bread with as much of the salted butter that she could grapple away from the equally eager Shire-folk, and she drank a good amount of ale. It didn't take long for her to become sleepy and begin yawning.

"So soon, Emma!" Laughed Pippin, "You need more rest than my great-great-Aunt Petunia!"

"You'd need rest too if you had been on foot all day." She pointed out.

"We must find you a horse before we continue on," Merry decided, "There's no use walking all the way to Rivendell."

Frodo shushed him, but there hadn't been anyone around to hear. The only ones who had been in the rooms with them were Butterbur and Nob, who had left after the meal was served, inviting them to join the company that had arrived earlier in the main room.

While the hobbits, aside from Merry, decided to join in, Emma excused herself. With all of the excitement and terror, she hadn't realized that the last time she had slept was in the Old Forest, aside from losing consciousness for a few hours at the bottom of a hill. As soon as she got into her room, she locked the door, stripped down her shift and rolled up dress, putting it at the bottom of the bed to keep her feet up in the night.

Although the bed was less comfortable, filled with straw that poked at her from under the mattress cover, her slumber was deeper and less troubled than at Tom's.

It was not, however, long.

A rapid knocking at the door drew her out of her sleep, and groggily, with very much displeasure, she picked up her sword and went to the door.

Sam was there, fretful as always. "Forgive me, Miss Smith, but there's an odd man that has come up with us from the company - Strider, his name is - and we'd be a bit more comfortable if you and your stinger were there, if you don't mind."

Deeply sighing, Emma smacked her head on the door. "Let me put on some pants."

When they reached the parlour, they found Frodo and Pippin in the chairs, and in the one nearest to the door was a stranger, grizzled, tall and grim.

She supposed he could be a king, if he shaved first.

"I am called Strider," he introduced himself, "And you must forgive me, but I don't believe you'll be much defence for your friends if you're asleep on your feet."

Dressed only in a shift with pants sitting awkwardly on her hips, hair a full mess, coin pouch in one hand and barely holding up a sword with the other, she still made the effort to glower at him and seem slightly more intimidating than cocker spaniel. "Doesn't take much to stick you with the pointy end."

"It would take more than you'd think."

She grumbled in response as she took a chair, nearly passing right back out into sleep as she settled into it.

"You said I might hear something to my advantage, I believe," said Frodo, "What have you to say?"

"Several things," Strider responded, "But, of course, I have my price."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked, eyes narrowing.

"Don't be alarmed! I mean just this: I will tell you what I know, and give you some good advice - but I shall want a reward."

"For the love of - get to the point!" Growled Emma. Heir of Isildur or not, he was purposefully being an absolute pain.

"It's no more than you can afford," He smiled and she took personal offence, as though he was intentionally trying to get under her sleep-deprived skin. "Just this: you must take me along with you, until I wish to leave you."

"Leave sooner." She muttered, as her eyes tried to flicker shut. Coffee, that was what she needed. A nice strong americano. How long until coffee beans made their way to Europe? She couldn't wait five thousand years for caffeine.

"Oh, indeed!" Said Frodo. "Even if I wanted another companion, I should not agree to any such thing, until I knew a good deal more about you, and your business. Besides, we already have a swordsman - or woman, rather."

Strider smiled as he settled into his chair. "You seem to be coming to your senses again, and that is all to the good, though not in the matter of your guard - she already slumbers there!"

She forced her eyes open for the sole sake of glaring at him, though it had no effect on his demeanour, even though it was her weaponized 'unimpressed older sister' glare.

"You have been much too careless so far. Very well! I will tell you what I know, and leave the reward to you. You may be glad to grant it, when you have heard me."

"Go on then!" said Frodo. "What do you know?"

"Too much; too many dark things." How grim and dramatic. "But as for your business -" He stood up and checked outside the door quickly before shutting it again. "I have quick ears, and though I cannot disappear, I have hunted many wild and wary things and I can usually avoid being seen, if I wish. Now, I was behind the hedge this evening on the Road west of Bree, when four hobbits and a woman came out of the Downlands. I need not repeat all that they said to old Bombadil or to one another, but one thing interested me. 'Please remember,' said one of them, 'that the name Baggins must not be mentioned. I am Mr. Underhill, if any name must be given.' That interested me so much that I followed them here. I slipped over the gate just behind them. Maybe Mr. Baggins has an honest reason for leaving his name behind; but if so, I should advise him and his friends to be more careful."

"I don't see what interest my name has for any one in Bree, and I have still to learn why it interests you. Mr. Strider may have an honest reason for spying and eavesdropping; but if so, I should advise him to explain it." An angry hobbit was an unusual sight, but Frodo had earned it.

"Well answered!" said Strider, laughing. "But the explanation is simple: I was looking for a Hobbit called Frodo Baggins. I wanted to find him quickly. I had learned that he was carrying out of the Shire, well, a secret that concerned me and my friends. Now, don't mistake me," he said loudly as the hobbits stood up in shock, and Emma sat up sharply, more awake now at that. Whether it was simply time or sleep-deprivation, she couldn't remember this conversation. "I shall take more care of the secret than you do. And care is needed! Watch every shadow!" He said lowly, "Black horsemen have passed through Bree. On Monday one came down the Greenway, they say; and another appeared later, coming up the Greenway from the south."

There was a silence only broken by Emma quietly cursing them, and Frodo turned to Sam and Pippin. "I ought to have guessed it from the way the gatekeeper greeted us," he said, "And the landlord seems to have heard something. Why did he press us to join the company? And why on earth did we behave so foolishly? We ought to have stayed quiet in here."

"It would have been better," Strider agreed, "I would have stopped your going into the common-room, if I could; but the innkeeper would not let me in to see you, or take a message."

Immediately Frodo was concerned about Butterbur, but Strider reassured him. "No, I don't think any harm of old Butterbur. Only he does not altogether like mysterious vagabonds of my sort." Frodo gave him a puzzled look. "Well, I have rather a rascally look, have I not? And he was duly concerned for the lady in your party. But I hope we shall get to know one another better. When we do, I hope you will explain what happened at the end of your song. For that little prank-"

"It was sheer accident!" Protested Frodo.

"I wonder," said Strider, "Accident, then. That accident has made your position dangerous."

"Hardly more than it was already," Frodo retorted, "I knew these horsemen were pursuing me; but now at any rate they seem to have missed me and to have gone away."

"You must not count on that! They will return. And more are coming. There are others. I know their number. I know these Riders." Strider paused, his face drawn, "And there are some folk in Bree who are not to be trusted. Bill Ferny, for instance. He has an evil name in the Bree-land, and queer folk call at his house. You must have noticed him among the company: a swarthy sneering fellow. He was very close with one of the Southern strangers, and they slipped out together just after your 'accident'. Not all of those Southerners mean well; and as for Ferny, he would sell anything to anybody; or make mischief for amusement."

"What will Ferny sell, and what has my accident got to do with him?" Asked Frodo.

"News of you, of course," answered Strider, "An account of your performance would be very interesting to certain people. After that they would hardly need to be told your real name. It seems to me only too likely that they will hear of it before this night is over. Is that enough? You can do as you like about my reward: take me as a guide or not. But I may say that I know all the lands between the Shire and the Misty Mountains, for I have wandered over them for many years. I am older than I look. I might prove useful. You will have to leave the open road after tonight; for the horsemen will watch it night and day. You may escape from Bree, and be allowed to go forward while the Sun is up; but you won't go far. They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!"

Strider had grown grim and was clutching at the chair with pale knuckles as they sat in silence. Noticing that the fire was dying, Emma got up and stoked it, laying more kindling and a log onto it to bring more light and warmth to the dark discussions.

"There!" Said Strider, pulling his hand across his face, "Perhaps I know more about these pursuers than you do. You fear them, but you do not fear them enough, yet. Tomorrow you will have to escape, if you can. Strider can take you by paths that are seldom trodden. Will you have him?"

There was a heavy silence. Even though Emma knew who Strider was and that he could be trusted, she instead allowed the hobbits to discuss the situation first and make their decision.

"With your leave, Mr. Frodo, I'd say no!" Sam cried suddenly, "This Strider here, he warns and he says take care; and I say yes to that, and let's begin with him. He comes out of the Wild, and I never heard no good of such folk. He knows something, that's plain, and more than I like; but it's no reason why we should let him go leading us out into some dark place far from help, as he puts it."

Frodo looked at the others in the room. Pippin looked uncomfortable and said nothing, while Emma simply shrugged at him, letting him know that the choice was his.

"No," Frodo said thoughtfully, "I don't agree. I think, I think you are not really as you choose to look. You began to talk to me like the Bree-folk, but your voice has changed. Still Sam seems right in this: I don't see why you should warn us to take care, and yet ask us to take you on trust. Why the disguise? Who are you? What do you really know about - about my business; and how do you know it?"

"The lesson in caution has been well learned," said Strider, smiling grimly, as he was wont do, "But caution is one thing and wavering is another. You will never get to Rivendell now on your own, and to trust me is your only chance. And your own swordswoman, well, if she is from Harlindon I would be surprised, for they speak Sindarin there. You have told me she is a farmer, but she has not the hands nor demeanour of one who lives off the land. Who is your companion, truly?"

She scowled at him. "My business is none of your's. I make for Rivendell, to speak with Elrond about my circumstances, and I will protect these hobbits with my life if I must. What more do you need?"

"We have travelled with Emma since the House of Tom Bombadil, where she was a guest." Frodo jumped to her defence, "She has proven herself a true friend and trustworthy defender. Though she keeps to herself, I have some notion of her true origins - and I would trust her with my life."

Both the Mannish people in the room stared at him, Strider with a look of surprise and Emma with abject confusion. Had Tom told him about her being from a different world? Did he try to explain the concept of computer to him? Poor hobbit.

"I will not stop you, then, from choosing your companions. If she has Tom Bombadil's trust, that will be enough for me." Strider finally said, "But you must make up your mind. I will answer some of your questions, if that will help you to do so. But why should you believe my story, if you do not trust me already? Still here it is-"

There was a knock at the door. Butterbur had arrived with new candles, as the parlour's had burnt to the bottom, and Nob as well with cans of hot water. Strider tucked himself to the corner out of sight.

'I've come to bid you good night." Said the landlord, putting the candles on the table, "Nob! Take the water to the rooms!" As the hobbit left, Butterbur came into the room, shutting the door behind him. "It's like this," he hesitated, suddenly noticing Emma, back in her men's clothes and with a sword over her lap. He checked the faces of the hobbits, but as they didn't seem fearful in the presence of the armed woman, he carried on. "If I've done any harm, I'm sorry indeed. But one thing drives out another, as you'll admit; and I'm a busy man. But first one thing and then another this week have jogged my memory, as the saying goes; and not too late I hope. You see, I was asked to look out for hobbits of the Shire, and for one by the name of Baggins in particular."

"And what has that got to do with me?" Asked Frodo, taking Strider's words to heart.

"Ah! you know best," said Butterbur with a knowing look. "I won't give you away; but I was told that this Baggins would be going by the name of Underhill, and I was given a description that fits you well enough, if I may say so."

"Indeed! Let's have it then!"

"'A stout little fellow with red cheeks'," said Butterbur, clearly quoting someone in a sombre voice. "'That won't help you much; it goes for most hobbits, Barley,' he says to me, 'But this one is taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin: perky chap with a bright eye.' Begging your pardon, but he said it, not me." When Frodo questioned who it was, Butterbur continued. "Ah! That was Gandalf, if you know who I mean. A wizard they say he is, but he's a good friend of mine, whether or no. But now I don't know what he'll have to say to me, if I see him again: turn all my ale sour or me into a block of wood, I shouldn't wonder. He's a bit hasty. Still what's done can't be undone."

Frodo interrupted him. "Well, what have you done?"

"Where was I?" Butterbur paused for a moment, trying to get back to his place in the story. He jumped when Emma began tapping nails against her sword impatiently. "Ah, yes! Old Gandalf. Three months back he walked right into my room without a knock. 'Barley,' he says, 'I'm off in the morning. Will you do something for me?' 'You've only to name it,' I said. 'I'm in a hurry,' said he, 'and I've no time myself, but I want a message took to the Shire. Have you anyone you can send, and trust to go?' 'I can find someone,' I said, 'tomorrow, maybe, or the day after.' 'Make it tomorrow,' he says, and then he gave me a letter. It's addressed plain enough." He said, and read out Frodo's address in the Shire.

"A letter for me from Gandalf!" Frodo seemed more relieved than he had in days.

"Ah! Then your right name is Baggins?"

They argued back and forth for a moment, as to why Butterbur had forgotten, but Emma kept her eyes and interest on Strider. She supposed, that in different light, with a bath, he might be handsome enough. He was more her type than any elves might be. His clothes were worn leather, but she could see the hint of dull chain mail glinting at his wrists. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows at her, which she returned. If he hadn't talked around them in riddles while she was half-asleep, she might've liked him better.

"These black men," the landlord's words drew her back to his conversation. "They're looking for Baggins, and if they mean well, then I'm a hobbit. It was on Monday, and all the dogs were yammering and the geese screaming. Uncanny, I called it. Nob, he came and told me that two black men were at the door asking for a hobbit called Baggins. Nob's hair was all stood on end. I bid the black fellows be off, and slammed the door on them; but they've been asking the same question all the way to Archet, I hear. And that Ranger, Strider, he's been asking questions, too. Tried to get in here to see you, before you'd had bite or sup, he did."

"He did!" Strider stepped into the light. "And much trouble would have been saved, if you had let him in, Barliman."

Between Strider and Emma, Butterbur would have a heart attack soon. "You!" he cried. "You're always popping up. What do you want now?"

"He's here with my leave," said Frodo. "He came to offer me his help."

"Well, you know your own business, maybe," answered Butterbur with a suspicious look at Strider, "But if I was in your plight, I wouldn't take up with a Ranger."

"Then who would you take up with?" Snapped Strider. "A fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day? They cannot stay in The Pony for ever, and they cannot go home. They have a long road before them. Will you go with them and keep the black men off?"

"Me? Leave Bree! I wouldn't do that for any money," said Butterbur, clearly afraid, "But why can't you stay here quiet for a bit, Mr. Underhill? What are all these queer goings on? What are these black men after, and where do they come from, I'd like to know?"

"I'm sorry I can't explain it all." Frodo said, "I am tired and very worried, and it's a long tale. But if you mean to help me, I ought to warn you that you will be in danger as long as I am in your house. These Black Riders: I am not sure, but I think, I fear they come from-"

Strider interrupted him. "They come from Mordor," he said, "From Mordor, Barliman, if that means anything to you."

It terrified the landlord even more, but Emma could see that his spine was made of stern stuff, for all Strider's dismissive comments. Maybe not steel, but at least a good sturdy oak. She smiled as he wondered out loud what good he would be against the forces of darkness that threatened them all.

"Against the Shadow in the East, not much, Barliman, but every little helps." Said Strider, "You can let Mr. Underhill stay here tonight, as Mr. Underhill, and you can forget the name of Baggins, till he is far away."

"I'll do that," said Butterbur, "But they'll find out he's here without help from me, I'm afraid. It's a pity Mr. Baggins drew attention to himself this evening, to say no more. The story of that Mr. Bilbo's going off has been heard before tonight in Bree. Even our Nob has been doing some guessing in his slow pate: and there are others in Bree quicker in the uptake than he is."

"Wait, what did Frodo do?" Emma asked, suddenly lost.

When Pippin quickly caught her up on the story of Frodo standing on the table and reciting poetry before jumping off and disappearing, she turned to Frodo and gave him her best 'mom' look, which made Strider chuckle.

Frodo seemed shameful enough. "Well, we can only hope the Riders won't come back yet."

"I hope not, indeed," said Butterbur, "But spooks or no spooks, they won't get in The Pony so easy. Don't you worry till the morning. Nob'll say no word. No black man shall pass my doors, while I can stand on my legs. Me and my folk'll keep watch tonight; but you had best get some sleep, if you can."

His phrasing in Westron translated very poorly to English, and though she knew what he meant regarding the Nazgûl, she frowned out of habit.

"In any case we must be called at dawn," decided Frodo, "We must get off as early as possible. Breakfast at six-thirty, please." Emma and Pippin both winced at the time.

Butterbur nodded. "Right! I'll see to the orders. Good night, Mr. Baggins - Underhill, I should say! Good night - now, bless me! Where's your Mr. Brandybuck?"

They suddenly glanced around with some anxiety, realising that Merry still had not returned. Although Butterbur promised to bar the gates against the Black Riders and send out Nob to find Merry, Emma stood, deciding to go out with Nob to seek him out.

Strider raised an eyebrow at her. "A woman wandering the night in men's clothes is sure to draw more talk."

"Nobody knows me. I wasn't downstairs, and I was hooded the entire walk through town." She shrugged, "If they can tell I'm a woman, I'd be pretty impressed."

With a frown, he spoke a few strange words at her.

"Er, sorry?"

"He asked if you spoke the language of the elves," Frodo told her, "The tongue he spoke was Sindarin."

"Forgive me," Strider seemed confused, "But you speak Westron as though it was foreign to you - I thought perhaps Sindarin was your mother-tongue."

She walked to the door. "I know a few languages, but only languages of men." Butterbur opened it for her and she stepped into the hall, "And my mother-tongue is a wreck you could never imagine."

As the door closed behind them, the landlord couldn't help but fret at her. "It's a dangerous night, Miss Smith, and I don't feel right sending you out there - Nob, at least, knows Bree well enough to keep to safe roads."

She waggled her weapon at him. "Who here has the sword, Mr. Butterbur?"

"Aye, and a fine sword it is, but there are many more out there who wield sharp and wicked blades. And were you not the one who told me that you dressed as a man for safety on the roads?"

"One of my hobbits is out there, and I don't plan to lose him." She said firmly, "Now I have to grab my cloak and sheath. Tell Nob I'll meet him at the door."

With a heavy sigh, Butterbur made to leave. "As you wish, miss. One more thing - do be wary of that Ranger fellow. His kind are strange, and good folk avoid them."

Emma smiled at that. "I think he may surprise you." She said simply and went to her room.

After switching her shift for her shirt and buckling her belt and sheath around her waist, Emma pinned her cloak around her neck, making sure that the fabric was hiding the large silver brooch. In the morning she would have to ask Butterbur for something less ostentatious to wear on the road.

Nob was waiting at the door for her, she was glad to see, a lantern in his hand. With Beacenfyr under her cloak and her hood up, they set out into the night quietly. The cool of the night woke her up some, far better than the smothering warmth of the parlour.

They headed west first, towards the gate that they had entered by. The watchman was at the step of his house, but he recognized Nob and when they asked about Merry's whereabouts he informed them that Nob was the first halfling he'd seen since their party arrived. Again, Emma had to avoid his curious gaze at her.

This was noticed, and as they left him, Nob brought it up. "You do not wish to be recognized." He stated simply.

"I stand out enough as it is, a ginger woman travelling with four hobbit men. Don't need to be talked about."

"Does it not have to do with your sigil?" At her odd look he continued on, "You have it covered now, but it's rather striking. Heathertoes showed me something similar once, an old family treasure from Cardolan. They had been stewards to the royal family."

"Really? I'd like to speak with him when I'm next in Bree." To hear more of the history of Cardolan would be interesting to her. Given that it was where she had stumbled into this world, it was as close as a homeland she'd get.

When they reached the South-gate, Emma's eyes caught something in the darkness. What looked like two figures, cloaked in black robes that stood out against the blue night. They loomed over something lying in the road. Nob spotted them as well, crying out at them as Emma drew her sword and shouted along side him.

The black shapes peeled off into the darkness as they charged ahead, coming up to the body on the ground.

"Merry!" Emma gasped. He looked asleep, much the way he had when he had been pulled of the barrow not even a day ago. She patted at his face, trying to wake him, murmuring quietly, "Wake now my merry tad! Wake and hear me calling! Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen."

When he began to rouse, Emma threw herself onto him in a hug, gripping him tightly as he startled awake.

"What…? Emma!" Shaking his head, he sat up. "I thought I had fallen into deep water."

Nearby Nob stared grimly at a house, where a face was watching them from the window. Emma helped up Merry and he began to run, heading towards the inn, she and Nob doing their best to keep up.

"What happened?" She asked as they made it to the inn, her struggling for breath.

"They're here! The Black Riders!" He hissed.

"Oh. Shit."

As soon as they all made it in and the gate was barred behind them, Emma and Merry booked it to the parlour. They burst through the door, finding a more relaxed Frodo, Sam, and Strider, and Pippin yawning in the chair.

"We have seen them, Frodo! I have seen them! Black Riders!"

Emma collapsed into her chair by the fire as Merry told them all he had seen. A Nazgûl had been within the village without their horses, watching Merry from nearby. When it slunk away, he had followed it, whether foolishly or bravely he could not tell.

"Which way did it go?" Strider asked, and Merry was startled until Frodo assured them that he was a friend of Gandalf's.

"'It seemed to make off up the Road, eastward." He said, "I tried to follow. Of course, it vanished almost at once; but I went round the corner and on as far as the last house on the Road."

Strider was now learning the wonders of hobbit-folk and their fearless ways. "You have a stout heart, but it was foolish."

His words were shrugged off, and they were told how Merry had followed them all the way to the last house on the road, where he heard voices, and then was knocked unconscious. Nob chimed in, telling them how he and Emma had found Merry on the road, shadows watching over his body.

"The Black Breath. The Riders must have left their horses outside, and passed back through the South-gate in secret. They will know all the news now, for they have visited Bill Ferny; and probably that Southerner was a spy as well. Something may happen in the night, before we leave Bree." Said Strider, thinking deeply. He assured them that the Riders were unlikely to attack the inn, and that they were not yet strong enough to strike openly.

That was enough for Emma. As the men all decided on how to keep themselves safe through the night, she kicked off boots, removed her cloak, and rested her sword by her side. Were it not awkward, she'd have tossed her pants off as well. She curled up into her chair and ignored the others pile in their possessions, barricading themselves in the parlour against the growing darkness beyond the door. Clutching her coin purse in her hand as she fell into sleep, she felt the dwarven ring warm.


	6. A Knife in the Dark, or Emma's Patronus is a Goat

A burning in her hand startled her awake, and her eyes flew open, all sleep and tiredness leaving her as she dropped her purse. Looking about the room she could see in the dim light of the fire Strider sitting at the fire, alert and watching her, and Frodo waking.

The hobbit made his way to the window as Emma reached down to pick up her purse, the burning now gone. Her ring must've been triggered by the One that had woken Frodo. She looked up at Strider, meeting his eyes as he watched her pick up her purse. As Frodo returned to sleep, the Ranger spoke quietly to her. "You clutch at your coins as though you fear a thief."

"What can I say, I'm a Millennial," she muttered in English, "What little money I have I guard zealously."

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that your mother-tongue? I must say, I've never heard anything like it."

"It's a strange blend," she told him, "I can speak the oldest and purest form of it, but as time went on it it blended with other languages, and now it's something of a jumble."

Picking up a poker, Strider stoked the fire as he thought. After some moments, he spoke. "I have travelled many places, yet I've heard nothing that echoes your words. Gandalf has tasked me with the care of these hobbits and their burden, but they clearly care for you and have no intention of leaving without you. Would you not ease my mind?"

"Sorry," Emma answered, "But Tom Bombadil, the Eldest, gave me the same task that Gandalf gave you. I will tell you everything, but only once we reach Rivendell. Please trust me until then."

"I see. I will give you the benefit of the doubt then. You have done well by these hobbits thus far, and clearly you all do care for one another deeply."

"We buds." She said simply.

Clearly that didn't come over properly in Westron as he laughed at her, while she had the suddenly realisation that she had probably said many things wrong and the hobbits had just been too polite to correct her. Sulkily she stared into the fire, wishing she had a book or something to bide the time until dawn, but even if there was one to be found, the letters would be unreadable to her. Luckily she had a good memory for songs and poetry, which was what led her into her useless English degree to begin with. Softly, she began reciting to herself in Old English:

"I can relate a truth-song about myself—  
go on about the going, how I in toilsome times  
often endured desperate days.  
Bitter breast-cares have I experienced,  
explored in a boat many sorrowful places,  
the terrible tossing of waves, where the narrow night-watch  
often seized me at the stem of the ship  
when it crashes by the cliffs.

Oppressed by chills were my feet,   
bound up by frost, with cold chains,   
where these sorrows sighed  
hot about the heart. Hunger tore within  
the sea-wearied mind. He does not know this fact  
who dwells most happily on dry land—  
how I, wretchedly sorrowful, lived a winter  
on the ice-cold sea, upon the tracks of exile,  
deprived of friendly kinsmen,  
hung with rimy icicles. Hail flies in showers.

There I heard nothing except the raging sea,  
the ice-cold waves. Sometimes the swan’s song  
I kept to myself as diversion, the cry of the gannet  
and the curlew’s voice for the laughter of men—  
the seagull’s singing for the drinking of mead.  
Storms beat the stony cliffs there, where the tern calls him  
with icy feathers. Very often the eagle screeches  
with wet feathers. No sheltering kinsfolk  
can comfort this impoverished spirit."

Strider listened to her diligently, and when she finished he requested a translation. When she did her best to translate it into Westron, he grinned at her.

"I have been penning a similar song with the help of another; I shall say it for you here, in its Sindarin and Westron verse.

His voice was wonderful when reciting poetry, Emma noticed. Much finer than when he was talking riddles at them.

"Eärendil was a mariner  
that tarried in Arvernien;  
he built a boat of timber felled  
in Nimbrethilto journey in;  
her sails he wove of silver fair,  
of silver were her lanterns made,  
her prow was fashioned like a swan,  
and light upon her banners laid.

In panoply of ancient kings,  
in chainéd rings he armoured him;  
his shining shield was scored with runes  
to ward all wounds and harm from him;  
his bow was made of dragon-horn,  
his arrows shorn of ebony;  
of silver was his habergeon,  
his scabbard of chalcedony;  
his sword of steel was valiant,  
of adamant his helmet tall,  
an eagle-plume upon his crest,  
upon his breast an emerald.

Beneath the Moon and under star  
he wandered far from northern strands,  
bewildered on enchanted ways  
beyond the days of mortal lands.  
From gnashing of the Narrow Ice  
where shadow lies on frozen hills,  
from nether heats and burning waste  
he turned in haste, and roving still  
on starless waters far astray  
at last he came to Night of Naught,  
and passed, and never sight he saw  
of shining shore nor light he sought.  
The winds of wrath came driving him,  
and blindly in the foam he fled  
from west to east and errandless,  
unheralded he homeward sped."

They traded verse for verse as the night ended and the dawn began to break, ever alert to any sounds out the door or in the yard. Strider introduced her to poetry of the elves while Emma got her vengeance for the evening before by reciting the riddles of the Exeter book and making him guess at the answers. By the time that the grey dawn broke they had eased in each other's company.

While Strider woke the hobbits, Emma went to find the kitchens, determined to get more rations for them.

The cook was an unfamiliar man, and rather mean looking. She looked at him sternly as she made her request for five extra loaves of bread, some cheese, and some meat jerky, in addition to a small bag of flour, some cheesecloth and some twine. He nearly laughed in her face until she pulled out one of the silver coins that Tom had given her, and then nearly snatched it out of her hands.

"Ah ah," she tsked, "Bring me the food first. And I'll want my change as well."

Obviously her high-and-mighty attitude annoyed him, but her money was enough for him to bypass it. When she left the kitchen with her new supplies and some smaller silver pennies, she found an uproar.

Her's and the hobbits' rooms had been broken into and ripped apart, and someone had stolen all the horses, including their ponies. The other guests at the inn were furious, having lost their transport.

When she met up again with her party, they were discussing how much each could carry, given they no longer had their ponies. She joined Sam in offering to carry an extra bag, as her's had little in it, but it would not be enough, and Butterbur sent into the village to find a horse for sale.

It caused a delay of three hours, ruining any hope of sneaking out of Bree. It gave them at least some time to eat breakfast, which they took in the common hall. Strider and Sam were antsy the whole time, glancing about as though men or monsters would burst through the door to hoist up Frodo and carry him away to Mordor. The others enjoyed themselves more, accepting their fate and food with gusto. Emma was very pleased to see a pot of proper tea, putting her one step closer to the golden caffeine standard of coffee, and she immediately purchased a packet of leaves on the spot, which the hobbits approved of, great tea drinkers themselves. They had scones studded with fruits, jam, toasted bread, cheese, and Emma even allowed herself a bit of bacon.

When the stable hand returned with news of a pony for sale, she had just finished combing and braiding her hair. The only one available was owned by Bill Ferny, and was in very poor shape and was overpriced. They took it with some caution, and found it to be a bony and dispirited creature that Emma and Sam fell immediately and hopelessly in love with. They had to purchase further supplies now, even with Emma's extra rations, and re-pack their bags. It wasn't until past ten that they managed to leave, and a crowd had come together to see them off. News of them had travelled through the town all morning and was building into a fantastical story: Black Riders and vanishing hobbits, a Ranger taking up with them, an attack on the inn in the night, and a woman dressed as a man and wearing a sigil of the Barrowdowns.

Strider had them leaving now by the main road to avoid being followed across the country by the curious onlookers. As they left, some of crowd glowered or jeered, at the strange Ranger and the party that had brought all this trouble on them, until Strider glowered at them. Emma lifted her head, eyes hooded and teeth apart, attempting the 'look' she had once read about in a book, to make herself seem above all their nonsense.

At the bottom of the road they neared the house where Emma and Nob had found Merry the night before. An unfamiliar man was watching them from inside, and over the hedges in front of the house a man with heavy brows watched them go by. His face was the one that she had seen watching them and the Black Riders the night before.

"Morning, Longshanks! Off early? Found some friends at last?" Strider only nodded politely and kept going as Bill Ferny turned to rest of them. "Morning, my little friends, my lady! I suppose you know who you've taken up with? That's Stick-at-naught Strider, that is! Though I've heard other names not so pretty, and ones perhaps the lady might enjoy! Watch out tonight!" He leered at her. 

Emma smirked at him. "Oh? Is Longshanks an accurate nickname then, Ferny? Should I be calling you Shortshanks? Tinyshanks? Noshanks?" As Ferny sputtered at her lewd insults, Strider came back and grabbed her arm, dragging her away.

Ferny tried to get his ground back. "And you, Sammie, don't go ill-treating my poor old pony!"

Sam spun around. "And you. Ferny, put your ugly face out of sight, or it will get hurt." As quick as anything Sam threw an apple, hitting Ferny square in the nose with a crack. The man ducked behind the hedges, cursing. "Waste of a good apple." Muttered Sam regretfully.

"Between the two of you I believe we'll be making many enemies in Middle-earth," Strider said as they left through the South-gate, "Perhaps I'll let you two deal with any foul creatures we meet on the way."

"Hell yeah, between my insults and Sam's produce we'll clear the path to Rivendell." She leaned back with her fist extended towards the hobbit. "Fist bump."

He gave her an odd look. "What?"

"Fist bump. Make a fist and bump it against mine. It's a sign of camaraderie where I'm from."

He did so gently, tapping his knuckles against her's.

"Noice!" She grinned and he chuckled as the others smiled at her oddness. Pippin quickly insisted on doing it with Merry and Frodo, and then her. Sadly, Strider was left out of the fist bumping shenanigans, but he didn't seem to mind so much. There was a cheer and relief over the hobbits and Emma, being back on the road with a true guide and defender who was a friend of Gandalf's.

They followed the road for many miles, passing Staddle and seeing smoke from Combe. Emma was told there was another town further beyond the trees, but they did not see it.

After leaving Bree far behind and the other towns well out of sight, Strider led them to a small trail that veered northward off the road. "This is where we leave the open and take to cover." He said, looking up and down the road.

"Not a 'short cut', I hope," complained Pippin, "Our last short cut through woods nearly ended in disaster."

Strider laughed at Pippin's frown. "Ah, but you had not got me with you then. My cuts, short or long, don't go wrong."

He led the way into the woods, with Frodo, Merry, and Pippin behind him, Sam leading Bill behind them, and Emma taking up the rear. Being in the woods always brought out a strange wild alertness to her - every snap of a twig, or falling of a rock made her shoulders tense and eyes flicker about. Luckily they only seemed to be caused by birds and the occasional squirrel, and after a few hours she relaxed and trusted Strider to guide them windingly but safely east.

When they camped that night in the woods, she realized that for all that Lord of the Rings was a story about long journeys through the woods, this was the first night she'd be camping outside. Thus far she had either slept on beds or not slept at all - the idea of sleeping on the ground worried her. That, and the large blister she found on her foot. As they built a fire and started cooking, Emma, Strider, and Sam set up a watch schedule. Emma would take the first watch, then Strider, then Sam. Although Strider had initially planned it to be with just Emma, Sam insisted that he have a part in it, and they let him have the early watch so that he could also start on breakfast.

After a meal of cheese toasties and fried pork, which Emma substituted with some of the jerky she'd purchased, the hobbits settled in to sleep, extra blankets over their cloaks, and Strider rested against a tree with his pipe between his lips.

"Frodo told me," he started, "That you slayed several wights in the Barrow-downs when they had been stolen. That the scrapes and cuts all on your hands are from trying to break down the barrow to rescue them."

"Frodo exaggerates." She said with a shrug, "I killed one wight, maybe two." Looking down at her healing scrapes, she smiled. "I did try to break down the barrow though. Had to get Tom Bombadil to help me in the end." She began reciting his poem, but was shushed.

"Tom Bombadil's words have power, even when he does not speak them himself." Strider told her, "We need not draw more attention to ourselves."

Nodding in agreement, Emma stayed silent and tended to the fire throughout her hours. After some time she realized that Strider had no intention of leaving the first watch to her alone, and she rolled her eyes. When he moved up to the fire to start his watch, she pulled up her cloak and moved back to her own tree.

"You better sleep when Sam takes over," she scolded, "We don't need an exhausted Ranger trying to lead us through the woods."

He laughed quietly. "You are quite the mother hen. No wonder the hobbits are so fond of you."

"I have a younger brother and sister - it was my job to make sure they didn't get too hurt when we were playing out in the fields or the woods." Fondly, she smiled at the memories of learning how to patch up wounds with leaves to try and keep their moms from learning about their mischief. It never really worked.

"And where is your family?"

She turned around to raise her eyebrows at him, knowing he was still trying to gather knowledge of who she was. "Home," she said simply, "My moms are at home, with my little sister. My brother left five years ago, and I left eight years ago."

It was Strider's turn to raise his eyebrows. "It's common in your family, to leave home and wander so young?"

"It's encouraged where I'm from. My little sister, Sarah, will leave next year." Glancing back at him, she grinned, "You're not gonna get it."

"Get what?"

"Where I'm from. You'll never guess."

"So I should stop questioning you?"

"Yes." She turned back to the fire, "You're making me miss them."

She had, for the last few days, continued to stamp out fretful thoughts about being stuck in Middle-earth. The idea of not returning to her family eventually was unthinkable. Working in the garden with Mom, helping Mama with the chickens and sheep, staying up late after their parents went to sleep and playing card games and drinking with Sarah and Samuel. The farm itself, between the mountains and the Pacific, with wide fields lined by trees of a greater size than any she'd seen thus far in Middle-earth - she couldn't have it yanked away from her forever and be trapped in this world where she couldn't read a word, and she had no wi-fi, and she was isolated away from her beloved family.

"When did you last see your family?" He asked her gently, seeing the wistful look in her eyes.

"I saw my moms and Sarah about a week ago," she answered with a yawn, "And Samuel about two months ago." He had come up to the university for her birthday, bringing her cupcakes and cheap wine, and they binged tv shows in her shitty bachelor apartment all evening.

With a heavy melancholy and leaving Strider more confused than ever, Emma curled up against a tree and tried to sleep and forget her troubled thoughts, as there would be no solving them until they reached Rivendell. It was difficult to find a position that was comfortable. Either a rock or a root would always find a way to dig into her back and was probably causing more bruises than her night with the wights. In the end she moved slightly further away from the fire to a patch of grass and flopped onto it with a large 'hurrumph'. Strider's laughter carried back to her and she considered throwing a stick at him, but instead finally fell asleep.

She awoke at dawn to the smell of bacon. Sam was waking them in a way even better than shouting and shaking them. Strider seemed to have slept at last, she smiled to see, and she broke down and shared some of the bacon with him. With some of the cheese cloth she collected the bacon grease, planning to let it cool and solidify, to everyone's great curiousity. The hobbits toasted some bread in what she left of the grease, and they boiled some water for tea to get their morning started properly.

The caffeine was clearly doing wonders for Emma, the hobbits noted with amusement, as she became lighter and more talkative than she had been since they met her in the Old Forest. She even sang for them as they went into a darker part of the forest that unnerved them.

"While in the merry month of May, now from me home I started  
Left, the girls of Tuam were nearly broken-hearted  
Saluted father dear, kissed me darling mother  
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother  
Then off to reap the corn and leave where I was born  
Cut a stout, black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins  
A brand-new pair of brogues to rattle over the bogs  
And frighten all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin  
A-one, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road  
And all the ways to Dublin, whack, follol de-dah!

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary  
Started by daylight next morning blithe and early  
Took a drop of pure to keep me heart from shrinking  
Thats the Paddy's cure when'er he's on for drinking  
To hear the lassies smile, laughing all the while  
At me curious style, 'twould set your heart a-bubblin'  
They asked me was I hired and wages I required to lay  
Was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin  
A-one, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road  
And all the ways to Dublin, whack, follol de-dah!

In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity  
To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city  
So then I took a stroll, all among the quality  
Bundle it was stolen, in a neat locality  
Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind  
No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin'  
'Quiring after the rogue, said me Connaught brogue  
It wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin  
A-one, two, three, four, five

Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road  
And all the ways to Dublin, whack, follol de-dah!"

She couldn't give them a proper translation, so she just told them it was a travelling song from her homeland, which wasn't entirely true but close enough. This started them on other songs for travelling from the Shire. Pippin, with a very fine voice, lifted his voice in an upbeat version of a song she knew. 

"Upon the hearth the fire is red,  
Beneath the roof there is a bed;  
But not yet weary are our feet,  
Still round the corner we may meet  
A sudden tree or standing stone  
That none have seen but we alone.

Tree and flower and leaf and grass,  
Let them pass! Let them pass!  
Hill and water under sky,  
Pass them by! Pass them by!

Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate,  
And though we pass them by today,  
Tomorrow we may come this way  
And take the hidden paths that run  
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.

Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,  
Let them go! Let them go!  
Sand and stone and pool and dell,  
Fare you well! Fare you well!

Home is behind, the world ahead,  
And there are many paths to tread  
Through shadows to the edge of night,  
Until the stars are all alight.  
Then world behind and home ahead,  
We'll wander back to home and bed.

Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,  
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!  
Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,  
And then to bed! And then to bed!"

After him followed Frodo, singing a song that Bilbo wrote, Sam told her.

"Roads go ever ever on,  
Over rock and under tree,  
By caves where never sun has shone,  
By streams that never find the sea;  
Over snow by winter sown,  
And through the merry flowers of June,  
Over grass and over stone,  
And under mountains of the moon.

Roads go ever ever on  
Under cloud and under star,  
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.  
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone  
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known."

She did not tell him she knew this, as she had read it in the Hobbit.

After a long day of walking and doubling back, then walking forward and twisting around to walk backwards again, they finally settled in for the night. They kept to the same watch shifts, but this time Emma noticed that Strider slept some during her watch - the trust was appreciated.

In the morning he had decided that any watchers Ferny may have placed on their tail would've been lost by that time, and he began to take them through the Midgewater Marshes. As much as they tried to make their way through the marshes carefully and keep their feet dry, it became of little use. The boggy water was a pain for Emma, soaking through her boots, but it was even worse for the poor hobbits who were barefoot. They were soon swarmed with midges that nipped at their skin. She had taken off her cloak to prevent the edges from getting soaked but began to regret it as the bare skin around her neck and face was feasted on by the black flies.

"I am being eaten alive!" Pippin shouted, scratching furiously, "Midgewater! There are more midges than water!"

"What do they live on when they can't get hobbit?" Asked Sam helplessly.

There was no more singing as they were all miserable from the marshes, even Strider, and their campsite was just as cold and damp and bitey as the rest of the place, and Emma had to take over from Sam lighting the fire in the damp as he got frustrated. There were chirping creatures that he dubbed 'Neekerbreekers' and Emma referred to as crickets that kept them all up most up the night. She especially had trouble keeping the bugs away from her growing bacon grease ball. The next day was just as bad, although the Neekerbreekers did not follow them, the midges did, and Emma was truly feeling the grime of travel layering up on her. When she pulled out her braid to comb through it she had despaired to find it beginning to mat, and later that day her blister burst, causing them to halt while Strider treated it.

It was the fourth night that was more interesting. Just as she was waking up Strider for his watch, there was a light in the sky, in the east. Both Frodo and Strider watched it with her, as it flickered and shone again.

"What is that light?" The hobbit asked the Ranger.

"I do not know," he answered, "It is too distant to make out. It is like lightning that leaps up from the hill-tops."

Emma knew. It was Gandalf fighting the Nazgûl at Weathertop, she remembered, desperately trying to make it to Bree and find out if Frodo had made it safely out of the Shire with the One Ring. She wanted to tell them, but knew better - last time she had tried to change the plot she got knocked unconscious. As well it would make Strider suspicious of her when she had finally been gaining his trust.

Better to keep her mouth shut, she decided, as she curled up on the ground watching the flashes in the distance. It was strangely comforting, that Gandalf was near, and that someone was out there fighting the good fight.

The enormity of the battle for Middle-earth had begun to settle on her, but she drifted into sleep.

They left the marshes in the morning of the fifth day, to everyone's relief. They were still scratching at the bites, but at least no more were being added to them. After a breakfast of bread, cheese, and apples, they began making their way towards a line of hills in the distance.

"That is Weathertop," Strider indicated one of the hills that was taller than the others, " The Old Road, which we have left far away on our right, runs to the south of it and passes not far from its foot. We might reach it by noon tomorrow, if we go straight towards it. I suppose we had better do so."

"What do you mean?" Frodo asked.

"I mean: when we do get there, it is not certain what we shall find. It is close to the Road."

"But surely we were hoping to find Gandalf there?" It seemed that Frodo and Strider had come to the conclusion that the lights against the sky were Gandalf, as Emma knew.

"Yes; but the hope is faint." Sighed Strider, "If he comes this way at all, he may not pass through Bree, and so he may not know what we are doing. And anyway, unless by luck we arrive almost together, we shall miss one another; it will not be safe for him or for us to wait there long. If the Riders fail to find us in the wilderness, they are likely to make for Weathertop themselves. themselves. It commands a wide view all round. Indeed, there are many birds and beasts in this country that could see us, as we stand here, from that hill-top. Not all the birds are to be trusted, and there are other spies more evil than they are."

While the hobbits checked the sky anxiously, Emma tried to joke away the tension. "I always knew I liked cats for a reason!" She said, but it failed to break their anxiety.

"What do you advise us to do?" Frodo asked Strider.

"I think," Strider seemed unsure, "I think the best thing is to go as straight eastward from here as we can, to make for the line of hills, not for Weathertop. There we can strike a path I know that runs at their feet; it will bring us to Weathertop from the north and less openly. Then we shall see what we shall see."

It was an entire day's walk, and though she was getting used to that by now, her feet were still aching horribly. When they reached a stream that came from the hills, she took a moment to put her feet in the cold water and dampen a linen towel she had taken from the Prancing Pony, wiping off her face and hands, which gave a feeling of some renewal. The hobbits followed suit until Strider insisted they all move on until they found a grove of alder trees near the stream where they made camp.

It was there that Strider finally asked her to show him her skills with a sword. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

"How, exactly, did you manage to slay two wights?" Strider asked. The hobbits also seemed a little let down by her performance.

"They didn't have swords." She pointed out, panting heavily.

With a sigh, Strider came over and began to adjust her feet, telling her it would give her more balance. "At least you keep your movements short and sharp," he said, continuing to adjust her form, "You aren't drawn to large and flashy movements like most beginners are." He had her keep that form for five minutes before allowing her to sit down to a meagre supper of cheese, bread, and jerky, during which she took some time to pile flour into tight balls wrapped in cheesecloth. When asked, she simply said it was extra rationing.

After dinner Strider had her up and practising again, again focusing on her form and having her do some basic sword-drawing and striking routines over and over again until he was satisfied.

The first watch of the night was her and Pippin, and she practised the sword movements and form with him. He was very eager to be seen as helpful to his friends and cousins, as he was the youngest of them, and so they both did the forms and strikes Strider showed them. Strider stayed awake most of the night and watched them silently.

They walked from sunrise to sunset, and other than the pain of her foot from the still healing blister, it was quiet and uneventful. However, they all felt a chill on their spine and no one sang, as they all knew the Black Riders would be nearby.

Dinner was getting thinner as they rationed out their meals. Emma could hear the hobbits' stomachs growling in the night, and the next morning she pulled out one of her extra bread loaves to make sure they had more sustenance. She herself had only a few bites - the exhaustion of walking all the days, the fear of the Nazgûl, and the quiet, gnawing worry about being in Middle-earth were all taking their toll on her appetite. But she and Pippin still practised their swordsmanship under Strider's eyes, now learning some slashing moves, mostly to keep enemies away from them.

In the morning they found a true trail, leading them to Weathertop. As they walked further along it, they began to come across standing stones along the path, much like the ones in the Barrow-downs.

In fact, Emma found, they were VERY like the ones in the Downs. The stones were clearly sourced from the same quarry, where-ever it was. Back home she had read a few articles about the stones used for building barrows, in preparation for her thesis. When she touched them, they had the same kind of grain and cleaves as the barrow monoliths. Perhaps she would look more into that when she returned to her era, pick up some geology books that could help her identify which barrow stones came from the same quarries.

Merry had the same thought, though less based on a PhD. "I wonder who made this path, and what for?" he said as they passed through, "I am not sure that I like it: it has a - well, rather a barrow-wightish look. Is there any barrow on Weathertop?"

"They were built by the same people who built the Barrow-downs." Emma answered without reassuring anyone.

Strider looked at her strangely, then shared a look with Frodo. "No. There is no barrow on Weathertop, nor on any of these hills, although Emma is correct. The Men of the West did not live here; though in their latter days they defended the hills for a while against the evil that came out of Angmar. This path was made to serve the forts along the walls. But long before, in the first days of the North Kingdom, they built a great watch-tower on Weathertop, Amon Sûl they called it. It was burned and broken, and nothing remains of it now but a tumbled ring, like a rough crown on the old hill's head. Yet once it was tall and fair. It is told that Elendil stood there watching for the coming of Gil-galad out of the West, in the days of the Last Alliance."

The hobbits were impressed with the Ranger's knowledge of old lore, though Emma remembered how Tom had told them that the Rangers were descendants of the old kings. "Who was Gil-galad?" Merry asked, but rather than Strider, a voice among them answered.

"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea.  
His sword was long, his lance was keen,  
his shining helm afar was seen;  
the countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield.  
But long ago he rode away,  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
for into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are."

It was Sam who had answered with the poem.

Merry was delighted. "Don't stop!" He said.

'"That's all I know," Sam blushed, "I learned it from Mr. Bilbo when I was a lad. He used to tell me tales like that, knowing how I was always one for hearing about Elves. It was Mr. Bilbo as taught me my letters. He was mighty book-learned was dear old Mr. Bilbo. And he wrote poetry. He wrote what I have just said."

"He did not make it up," Strider told them, "It is pan of the lay that is called The Fall of Gil-galad, which is in an ancient tongue. Bilbo must have translated it. I never knew that."

"There was a lot more, all about Mordor. I didn't learn that part, it gave me the shivers I never thought I should be going that way myself!"

Pippin shuddered at the thought. "Going to Mordor!" He cried, "I hope it won't come to that!"

"Do not speak that name so loudly!" Said Strider, shushing them.

Emma glanced around, but there were no Nazgûl or other beings in sight. As they continued on an upward slope toward the hill, she suddenly realised how relieved she was that in the week she'd been in Middle-earth, it had turned from September to October, instead of being mid-June as it was back home. The constant hiking had been hard enough without a summer sun beating down, and not having tissues to help clean up any sweat in certain areas would have been… uncomfortable, given the last few days of going to the bathroom in the woods with Strider undoubtedly lurking nearby.

Said Ranger pulled himself up tall, looking across the lands in the light. "We should make for the top, as we will not wish to climb the hill at night. Concealment is useless in this country."

The hobbits peered up at the top. "I see no movement, of enemies or Gandalf." Said Frodo, forlorn at the thought that the wizard was not there.

"It is not likely that he could wait for us, not with the Riders abroad," Strider said gently, "But I have not doubt he is on the move."

There was a hollow at the base of the hill, and Sam, Pippin, and Emma were left there with the packs and pony as the others climbed the hill. She was disappointed - she had wanted to see the view of the landscape from the top, but knew that obeying Strider was the best way to gain his trust.

After setting their luggage down and settling the pony, the hobbits went off to explore the surrounding area, while Emma stayed to 'guard' their possessions, although she was actually going over her feet. A new huge blister had formed over the last two days of walking, and she was unsure whether she should drain it or not. There were smaller ones that had popped and scabbed over since the bog, but this one was nasty. After searching their luggage and finding nothing she could use to disinfect it, she gave up on the idea and lay down, feet in the air, next to signs of a recent fire. Too bad she hadn't much liked Girl Guides - if she'd stuck around she might've learned how to tell how long it had been since the fire had been lit.

Pippin returned with refilled bladders of water, and Sam with firewood. The three of them began setting up camp not long before Strider, Frodo, and Merry returned. When told of their discoveries, Strider left to investigate.

He returned with his usual expression of grimness. "It is just as I feared, Sam and Pippin have trampled the soft ground, and the marks are spoilt or confused. Rangers have been here lately. It is they who left the firewood behind. But there are also several newer tracks that were not made by Rangers. At least one set was made, only a day or two ago, by heavy boots. At least one. I cannot now be certain, but I think there were many booted feet." He stood, looking as anxious as the hobbits.

"Oh good. I was missing our demonic stalkers." Emma drawled sarcastically. The foreknowledge of what would occur that night was very stressful, even with her preparations.

"Hadn't we better clear out quick, Mr. Strider?" Asked Sam, "It is getting late, and I don't like this hole: it makes my heart sink somehow.

"Yes, we certainly must decide what to do at once." He contemplated Sam's suggestion, casting his eye around the area, and taking in Emma, blistered and sore feet placed atop her bag. "Well, Sam," he finally said, "I do not like this place either; but I cannot think of anywhere better that we could reach before nightfall, not with Miss Smith's feet. At least we are out of sight for the moment, and if we moved we should be much more likely to be seen by spies. All we could do would be to go right out of our way back north on this side of the line of hills, where the land is all much the same as it is here. The Road is watched, but we should have to cross it, if we tried to take cover in the thickets away to the south. On the north side of the Road beyond the hills the country is bare and flat for miles."

Merry asked him whether they'd even been seen, as the Riders had always used their noses when hunting the hobbits.

"I was too careless on the hill-top. I was very anxious to find some sign of Gandalf; but it was a mistake for three of us to go up and stand there so long. For the black horses can see, and the Riders can use men and other creatures as spies, as we found at Bree." That was of very, very little comfort to Emma - the idea that it had been the horses that attacked her in the Barrow-downs. As if horses, with the exception of their pony, hadn't been terrifying enough to her before. "They themselves do not see the world of light as we do, but our shapes cast shadows in their minds, which only the noon sun destroys; and in the dark they perceive many signs and forms that are hidden from us: then they are most to be feared. And at all times they smell the blood of living things, desiring and hating it. Senses, too, there are other than sight or smell. We can feel their presence - it troubled our hearts, as soon as we came here, and before we saw them; they feel ours more keenly. Also," he added in a whisper, "the Ring draws them."

"Is there no escape then?" Said Frodo in an anxious state, "If I move I shall be seen and hunted! If I stay, I shall draw them to me!"

Poor Frodo. Sam stood closer to him in comfort as Strider reassured him that he would be safe, and that fire would be their weapon and their shield.

"It is also as good a way of saying 'here we are' as I can think of, bar shouting." Muttered Sam. He was ignored by Strider, but Emma laughed quietly.

They settled in to a sheltered part of the dell, and had a scarce dinner over the fire. Their rations would not last out the journey to Rivendell, and they would have to scavenge what they could. If there was time, Strider may even be able to hunt for them.

It was a cold night, and as it grew darker the hobbits cuddled up close to each other and fire, layered with blankets and cloaks. Strider seemed comfortable enough in what he wore, and Emma had tossed her cloak onto the halflings and was enjoying the chill.

They were kept entertained by Strider's tales of elves and First Men, the Numenoreans. Aside from the Silmarillion, Emma had never bothered with the histories of Middle-earth, and found all the stories fascinating. How many of them were in the actual histories, and how many had never made it into the books or Tolkien's notes? It joined Paddington Bear on her list of google searches for when she got home.

"Tell us of Gil-galad," said Merry suddenly, when he paused at the end of a story of the Elf-Kingdoms. "Do you know any more of that old lay that you spoke of?" But Strider refused, as it was too dark for the danger they were in.

"Then tell us some other tale of the old days," Sam pleaded, "A tale about the Elves before the fading time. I would dearly like to hear more about Elves; the dark seems to press round so close."

"I will tell you the tale of Tinúviel," Strider decided, "In brief - for it is a long tale of which the end is not known; and there are none now, except Elrond, that remember it aright as it was told of old. It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts." He did not speak for a moment, and Emma found herself wondering what he might be thinking of, when he began to quietly chant:

"The leaves were long, the grass was green,  
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,  
And in the glade a light was seen  
Of stars in shadow shimmering.  
Tinúviel was dancing there  
To music of a pipe unseen,  
And light of stars was in her hair,  
And in her raiment glimmering.  
There Beren came from mountains cold,  
And lost he wandered under leaves,  
And where the Elven-river rolled  
He walked alone and sorrowing.  
He peered between the hemlock-leaves  
And saw in wander flowers of gold  
Upon her mantle and her sleeves,  
And her hair like shadow following.  
Enchantment healed his weary feet  
That over hills were doomed to roam;  
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,  
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.  
Through woven woods in Elvenhome  
She tightly fled on dancing feet,  
And left him lonely still to roam  
In the silent forest listening.  
He heard there oft the flying sound  
Of feet as light as linden-leaves,  
Or music welling underground,  
In hidden hollows quavering.  
Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,  
And one by one with sighing sound  
Whispering fell the beechen leaves  
In the wintry woodland wavering.  
He sought her ever, wandering far  
Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,  
By light of moon and ray of star  
In frosty heavens shivering.  
Her mantle glinted in the moon,  
As on a hill-top high and far  
She danced, and at her feet was strewn  
A mist of silver quivering.  
When winter passed, she came again,  
And her song released the sudden spring,  
Like rising lark, and falling rain,  
And melting water bubbling.  
He saw the elven-flowers spring  
About her feet, and healed again  
He longed by her to dance and sing  
Upon the grass untroubling.  
Again she fled, but swift he came.  
Tinúviel! Tinúviel!"

It was Arwen, she realized. She had read about Beren and Luthien in wikis and fanfictions, but now, seeing Strider's face as he sang about the elf-woman who gave up her immortality for the man she loved… It felt too intimate, and she quickly turned to the fire.

As Strider finished chanting and told them the rest of the tale in prose rather than verse, the moon rose over Weathertop. There was something strange at the top, a piece of darkness untouched by the moonlight.

Emma quickly went to her pack, setting fire to piece of kindling for light. The incredibly gross but highly useful ball of grease had been starting to stink horribly, but now it would be of use. She pulled it out, along with one of her flour 'rations', and she ran the grease ball along the flame until it began to drip, then ran it along her sword's blade. Behind her, Sam and Merry had gone to spy what was on the hill; they came back breathless and fearful.

"I don't know what it is," Sam huffed, "But I suddenly felt afraid. I durstn't go outside this dell for any money; I felt that something was creeping up the slope."

"Did you see anything?" Frodo jumped up

"No, sir. I saw nothing, but I didn't stop to look."

"I saw something," said Merry, "Or I thought I did - away westwards where the moonlight was falling on the flats beyond the shadow of the hill-tops, I thought there were two or three black shapes. They seemed to be moving this way."

"Keep close to the fire, with your faces outward!" Ordered Strider. "Get some of the longer sticks ready in your hands!"

Emma came forward with her blade, the flour tucked to her side, and refused one of the sticks. Instead she drew back to the shadows, watching Strider with raised eyebrows and made a pulling motion with her hand - she was ready to grab whatever hobbits she could and run. He considered, then nodded curtly.

They waited for hardly a moment before the shadows loomed over the ridge. Darkness in the shape of cloaked men blotted out the stars in the sky like empty space. There was a quiet hiss, then they advanced.

Terrified, Pippin and Merry threw themselves to the ground, and Emma ran forward and grabbed them, pulling them back from the fire. She made for Frodo and Sam, but just as sudden as the Nazgûl had appeared, Frodo vanished.

"Fuck." She swore, and she threw herself into the fray.

Quite literally threw - she slammed into one of the shadows head-first, feeling freezing dread and what seemed like the frail body of a withered old man. Both her and the shadow rolled to the ground, barely landing beneath Strider's feet as he leapt forward with a fiery brand to fend them off while the disembodied voice of Frodo cried out in pain.

Emma scrambled to her feet, the pain being numbed by sudden adrenaline, and she dived to the fire, pushing Sam away from the Riders as she plunged her sword into the fire.

It lit.

The steel blade, dressed with bacon grease, was now aflame, and she took stabs at the shadows, while Strider drew back next to her, waving his brand at the Nazgûl. The fire-wielding Heir of Isildur and flaming blade drove off the Riders, who fled into the night. As they left, Beacenfyr flickered out, and the silver steel was dulled and browned by the grease.

Emma made to move, but Strider grabbed her by the arm, his grip so tight she gasped in pain. As tried to pull away, she glanced down and saw what he stared at:

Frodo, lying still and face-down on the ground.


	7. Flight to the Ford, or Emma Has the Worst Two Weeks of Her Life That Are Not Finals Weeks

The flaming sword trick, though neat and effective, was short-lived, and the consequences were shit. The consequences being Strider dragging her by the collar through the darkness, not caring as she stumbled over rocks and clumps of grass.

When they reached a fair distance away he threw her to the ground and pulled out his sword, pointing it at her throat.

Emma waited for him to speak, rather than dig herself into a hole deeper than the one she'd already dug herself.

"Who are you?" Strider finally asked. In better light she might've seen his glowering eyes, but the tone of his voice was enough to know that his patience with her secrecy was done.

She sat up and raised her hands slowly. "I understand, and I swear I will answer every single question you ask with only the truth. My name is Emma Smith."

"You are not of Harlindon." It was a statement.

"No, I'm not." She hesitated, then decided to risk telling him the full truth and looking like she was insane, and possibly being murdered in the grasslands of Fuck-All-Nowhere, Middle-earth. "I don't know how to explain where I'm from, aside from 'the future'. Or maybe not. It's all been very confusing and I've been trying not to think about it so I don't have a panic attack, at least until I get to Rivendell and can talk to Elrond and Mithrandir about it and see if they can help me, since that's what Tom Bombadil told me to do, and since I don't have any better ideas, that's what I'm going to do!"

There was dead silence in the air for a full three minutes before Strider finally spoke.

"What?"

"I'm from the future. Maybe. And I did grow up on a farm."

There was more silence, but one could hardly blame him for it. It was a lot to ask of a man who wandered around in the woods and hit things with swords as a career. The one at her throat hadn't moved at all, which she found very impressive given that her own sword was quite heavy.

"How did you light the sword on fire?"

"Er, bacon grease." She admitted. Not the question she expected, but it was very fair. "The stuff I've been collecting over the week. It's very flammable."

Strider thought for a moment, then took away his sword, but did not sheathe it. "How did you come here then, from 'the future'?"

"Through the barrows. I was visiting them from far away, to study them and the historical records that mention them - that's what I am, a scholar. I had been at one, Wayland's Smithy, that my family had worked near centuries ago, and I fell into it, and wound up in the Barrow-downs. I stole the cloak and sword from a wight in the barrow I came into. Then, I ran into the Old Forest, and met Tom Bombadil."

"I'm inclined to believe you, if only because that's the most I have ever heard you speak." Finally Strider shoved his sword back into its sheathe. "To be truthful, your words sound like those of the insane, but in these times even the strangest tales are coming true. The hobbits tell a tale of you that is far more plausible than your own, but your own story is so unlikely that rings truer. You were willing to give your life to protect the hobbits against the Black Riders, and for that I will not cast you off. But if you have any more secrets, you had best tell me now."

Emma pulled out her ring. "I might have one of the dwarven rings. Found it in a patch of chalk where a dragon died."

For a moment, in the moonlight, she saw Strider make the most put-open face that she had ever seen. Then he sighed, and began walking down the hill, his back to her.

"Soo, you'll still take me to Rivendell with the hobbits?" She asked, chasing after him.

"Indeed, you seem to be the sort of trouble Lord Elrond and Mithrandir would delight in unravelling." He said, searching in the grasses, "And the dwarven ring would best be kept safely in Imladris as well."

Right, Imladris was the Elven word for Rivendell. "What are you looking for?" Another question suddenly popped into her head, "And what did the hobbits tell you about me?"

"Signs of the Riders' passing, since I cannot discern their movements from you."

"Sorry I'm not a spy." She could tell him it would be safe for the rest of the night, but the last secret she would keep to herself would be her foreknowledge. It would keep until they were safe. He didn't acknowledge her second question, so once again she was left wondering what the hobbits could possibly have assumed about her.

Uselessly she followed him in the dark, not knowing what to look for nor how to find her way back to camp. He seemed to peer into the dark grass with great attention, while she aimlessly wandered along.

Finally he led them back to camp, only to find an overly defensive Sam over Frodo's, now awake, ready to strike Strider down.

"Step away from him, Emma!"

"They like me better." She said to Strider pettily. He gave her a look that clearly said that she should go back to keeping her mouth shut.

"I am not a Black Rider, Sam, nor in league with them." He said patiently, "I have been trying to discover something of their movements; but I have found nothing. I cannot think why they have gone and do not attack again. But there is no feeling of their presence anywhere at hand."

But Sam wasn't convinced yet. "And why did you take Emma out there? To shake her down? Punish her for defending us?"

"Shook me down a bit, but we're good." She attempted to sooth her noble defender, "We were searching for signs of the Riders, but we're safe." Glancing behind him, she was immediately concerned. "Frodo? Are you okay?"

The small hobbit showed them his wound and told them of what he had seen as he wore the ring. Emma cast a look at Strider, daring him to try and scold Frodo for wearing it, but the Ranger had other worries. He set Merry and Pippin to boiling water and bathing the wound with it to prevent infection. Then he pulled Sam and Emma aside.

"I think I understand things better now. There seem only to have been five of the enemy. Why they were not all here, I don't know; but I don't think they expected to be resisted. They have drawn off for the time being. But not far, I fear. They will come again another night, if we cannot escape. They are only waiting, because they think that their purpose is almost accomplished, and that the Ring cannot fly much further. I fear, Sam, that they believe your master has a deadly wound that will subdue him to their will. We shall see!" Sam choked with tears and Emma quickly put an arm around him. "Don't despair! You must trust me now. Your Frodo is made of sterner stuff than I had guessed, though Gandalf hinted that it might prove so." Strider reassured him. "He is not slain, and I think he will resist the evil power of the wound longer than his enemies expect. I will do all I can to help and heal him. Guard him well, while I am away!" Strider looked to Emma. "Can you light the sword again?"

She nodded. "I have other tricks up my sleeves as well," she said, pulling out the flour that she had set aside, "One of these in the fire will make it spread and burn wildly - they shouldn't dare come near us tonight."

The Ranger frowned at her. "Such knowledge you have is dangerous - use it in defence of these hobbits." With that he disappeared into the night.

For many hours they took turns tending to Frodo's wounds and being on guard. Emma was left on guard most of the time, which suited her just fine, wrapped in her cloak, allowing the brooch to reflect the flames. Occasionally she also had to go pick up more firewood to keep the fire going and make sure Frodo stayed warm.

His pale face reminded her of how Sarah had fallen out of a tree and broke her ankle when she was seven, and Emma and Samuel had carry her home in a litter made of a couple branches and three sweaters. Frodo, at least, would be able to walk or ride the pony. Merry was keeping the water boiling to treat the cut, preventing any infection. They put a pot of tea on, to try and give him some sustenance through the night.

Sam split his time between staying at his master's side and pacing the camp with his dagger in hand alongside Emma. They did not speak, but would stand together at the lip of dell, watching for any shadows in the night.

He was at Frodo's side when the dawn began to break and Strider returned from out of the gloom. Watching him come across the fields in the silvery light, she was reminded of Mr Darcy in the Pride and Prejudice movie. She wondered if he'd ever tried this move on Arwen - if she hadn't already been in love with him, this would do it.

"Look!" He cried out as he entered the dell, ruining his Austen hero aesthetic. Strider picked up a black cloak that had been hidden in the shadows over night. There was a rip in it. "This was the stroke of Frodo's sword. The only hurt that it did to his enemy, I fear; for it is unharmed, but all blades perish that pierce that dreadful King. More deadly to him was the name of Elbereth. And more deadly to Frodo was this!" He also had found a knife, but as he lifted it to the light, it began to melt and disappear into a fine mist, much like a mirage. It took Emma a moment for her brain to adjust to that. "Alas! It was this accursed knife that gave the wound. Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can."

Strider sat on the ground and sang over the hilt in an Elvish language. The others, including Frodo, looked just as lost as her. When he finished his song, he laid aside the hilt and pulled some leaves out of a pouch on his belt.

"These leaves I have walked far to find; for this plant does not grow in the bare hills; but in the thickets away south of the Road I found it in the dark by the scent of its leaves." Kingsfoil! Emma leaned in with great curiousity as he crushed a leaf between his fingers. "It is fortunate that I could find it, for it is a healing plant that the Men of the West brought to Middle-earth. Athelas they named it, and it grows now sparsely and only near places where they dwelt or camped of old; and it is not known in the North, except to some of those who wander in the Wild. It has great virtues, but over such a wound as this its healing powers may be small."

Strider certainly liked to hear himself talk - he would be an excellent professor. But Emma was excited to watch the healing powers of kingsfoil in his hands. The scent of it was familiar to her, vaguely reminding her of visits to the dentist, but she couldn’t place it to a plant.

They left as soon as the sun was high. Though their pony was gaining strength and great fondness for them all, though especially Sam, they still split their baggage between the non-injured of the party and had Frodo ride on his back. His arm was stiff and cold and unable to move, so Emma cut up her shift from Goldberry and fashioned a sling for him. They crossed over the road to the south.

As they neared the woods past the road, an unearthly cry, one Emma was growing wearyingly familiar with, rang out, and received another in answer. The travelling party booked it for the woods. They weren't woods the way that Emma knew them, even less so than the woods in Bree-land, but they were dense enough to give them cover. It was tiring, carrying the extra baggage, marching without any stops until nightfall, and no one had energy enough for talking and singing.

They had collected firewood as they went, needing as much fuel as possible to keep the fire going all night, to warm Frodo and keep the Riders away. Watches were in pairs now, Aragorn with Pippin, Emma with Sam, and Merry alternating with each group. Frodo was left to rest.

They all fretted over him, and though he would not admit to it, they knew his wound was aching again. Strider had pointed out the kingsfoil plant to Emma and Sam as they had trudged through the thickets, and the two had taken it upon themselves to collect it as much as possible. Emma wrapped some of the leaves in cheesecloth and hung it on her pack to let them dry out and hopefully stay in usable shape. Each night and morning Strider took the time to wash Frodo's wound with the kingsfoil brew, but it would not last.

There was no sign of the Riders, but they remained prepared. After choosing the sturdiest sticks that they had collected, Emma tore up the Nazgûl cloak Strider had found and wrapped it around the tops, placing pieces of the bacon grease ball within the layers of wrapping. Her reasoning to a bemused Strider was that it would serve both as a threat and a weapon should they return.

The days of travel took them through a wooded valley, but Emma was dreading climbing back out. This chapter was one she had always skimmed, and so she barely remembered what occurred - it was just a boring travelogue in the way of getting to the real good part, Boromir's arrival. She was getting anxious as the days went on, thinking of all the people she would meet if she didn't get murdered by the Nazgûl. Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Arwen, Gimli and Gloin, Legolas, and Boromir, her long-time literary crush. Half-heartedly she kind of wished that she would die out in the woods so that the pressure wouldn't be so immense. At least with the hobbits and Strider she'd been able to nap first before meeting them.

Her feet, at least, weren't hurting as much. Blisters were forming into callouses, and her boots were managing to hold up despite the constant hiking and the damp. The days were getting colder now as well, and she almost regretted giving up her shift for Frodo's sling, missing the extra layer. She wore her cloak constantly now, appreciating the old heavy wool. And she was pretty sure that Strider was no longer lurking in the woods when she went to the bathroom. That trust felt nice.

It was five days of travel through the valley in dense thickets and under ominous grey skies, and finally they began to move northwards and uphill again. Gravity was against them, and only Strider seemed to have the energy to keep going. The hobbits and Emma were slowing down, and even their pony was tiring, with Frodo and some of their baggage still being carried by him. Frodo was growing paler, which wasn't helped by how little food they were eating, even giving him the largest portions of all of them. It took Emma much time to convince Sam not to give Frodo his own entire portion. The cut was nearly healed, and the used the last of the kingsfoil they'd collected to wash it once more.

In the afternoon of the sixth day they reached the top of the slope, and looked down to see the road winding through the woods.

"I am afraid we must go back to the Road here for a while," said Strider, "We have now come to the River Hoarwell, that the Elves call Mitheithel. It flows down out of the Ettenmoors, the troll-fells north of Rivendell, and joins the Loudwater away in the South. Some call it the Greyflood after that. It is a great water before it finds the Sea. There is no way over it below its sources in the Ettenmoors, except by the Last Bridge on which the Road crosses."

"What is that other river we can see far away there?" Asked Merry.

"That is Loudwater, the Bruinen of Rivendell. The Road runs along the edge of the hills for many miles from the Bridge to the Ford of Bruinen. But I have not yet thought how we shall cross that water. One river at a time! We shall be fortunate indeed if we do not find the Last Bridge held against us."

"Wait, don't the elves hold that bridge? Wouldn't they defend it from the Riders?" Emma asked curiously.

But Strider shook his head. "There are few now who have such power to defend against the Riders - and alas, they may not even know that they are in pursuit of us. We can not depend on them for this - we must make our way ourselves."

In the morning, while Sam and Strider scouted ahead to the bridge, Emma had Pippin and Merry help her collect dry leaves. They hadn't been too affected by the damp yet so they would serve as decent tinder when the rains inevitably came. Frodo watched with amusement as his cousins inevitably fell into a leaf fight, and Emma exasperatedly shoved them both into a pile of leaves and threw more on top of them. When they escaped she found herself on the run, pursued by two vengeful tiny men. Finally, Frodo laughed, and it warmed their hearts to finally see some lightness in him again.

By the time Sam and Strider returned, they were wrapping the leaves up in Emma's green dress to make sure they stayed dry. There was no sign of recent travellers, but there had been some rain of late near to the hill, and Strider concluded that no one had used the road in at least two days. After a half hour's rushed hike through the woods, they came up to the bridge.

Nothing waited there for them. Ever cautious, Strider had the hobbits wait in the bushes and took Emma up to scout the bridge. While he checked the mud and dirt, using his almost unnatural tracking ability, Emma went under the bridge to see if anyone hid there.

Sword drawn, she descended the hill cautiously. Her boots became damp as she slowly slogged them through the mud, afraid of losing her footing and falling into the rushing water. When she peered under the ramparts, it was empty - no feet or hooves had been there recently. She grinned in relief, and looked up towards where Strider might be on the bridge.

"Who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?" She called up, "I'll gobble you up!"

Strider's head poked over the edge. "What are you doing?" He hissed.

"I'm a troll."

"You would already be stone. Get back up here, I've found something."

He was peering at something in his hand as she got up there. "I hope you're more fun when we get to Rivendell." She told him, pouting slightly.

He favoured her with a small smile. "When the danger is over, and Frodo is safe, then perhaps. Come see," holding out his hand, he presented her with a small green stone, "The elves have been here recently."

"Maybe they're looking for us," she suggested hopefully, "Maybe Gandalf went to Rivendell, and put out word that the hobbits were on their way."

"A high hope, but a possibility. Come, let us fetch the halflings."

"Wait, Strider," reaching out, Emma grasped his arm, "If the Black Riders have not passed along the road, that means it's more likely they are tracking us through the woods."

The grim look on his face was enough for her to know that he too had that thought. "We shall not tell the hobbits this - they have enough heaviness in their hearts."

Nodding in agreement, she followed him back to the now ominous trees.

The hobbits were as assured by the beryl-stone as the Men, and they moved along, crossing the bridge and heading back into the wilderness. This hill country was covered in trees, unlike the bare, empty lands before, and their half-bare branches lent their own kind of eeriness to the journey.

Frodo broke their silence. "Who lives in this land? And who built these towers? Is this troll-country?" Bilbo must've been on his mind, she realized, remembering how he had gone through this area with the dwarves in The Hobbit.

"No! Trolls do not build." Strider kept going on, as he was wont to do, "No one lives in this land. Men once dwelt here, ages ago; but none remain now. They became an evil people, as legends tell, for they fell under the shadow of Angmar. But all were destroyed in the war that brought the North Kingdom to its end. But that is now so long ago that the hills have forgotten them, though a shadow still lies on the land."

"Where did you learn such tales, if all the land is empty and forgetful?" Pippin was curious, "The birds and beasts do not tell tales of that son."

"The heirs of Elendil do not forget all things past, and many more things than I can tell are remembered in Rivendell." Answered the Ranger.

'Have you often been to Rivendell?' said Frodo.

"I have. I dwelt there once, and still I return when I may. There my heart is; but it is not my fate to sit in peace, even in the fair house of Elrond."

"Your heart, eh?" Emma poked at him with her words, but he did not answer her prodding - his eyes had grown distant, and were filled with the light of Luthien.

Two days of brutal journey continued, filled with scrambling over rocks and fallen trees, and sloughing their way through narrow brush under cliffsides. The weather turned against them, and rain began to fall. Emma's cloak was good defence for some time, but eventually the damp came through and she was left as wet as all the others. They camped that night in a shallow cave, and Strider and Sam found that they could not light a fire for the life of them.

It was Emma's time to shine. "Wait here!" She said happily, throwing herself back into the rain. Into the trees she went, digging up not entirely soaked logs from under the wet leaves, and ripping pieces of wood out of fallen logs.

While she was digging out a piece of kindling, there was a loud crack in the woods and she froze. The night was closing in, and she couldn't see further than a few trees. It wasn't too far from the camp, and if the Nazgûl had caught up… was this when they showed up? No, an elf had shown up by then. The noise was probably nothing. Still, her heart clearly had no intention of slowing down.

Giving up on the last piece of wood she rushed back to camp, ever-feeling like a cold, boney hand was going to reach out of the night and grasp her.

When she got back, it was nearly black out, and she hurriedly borrowed Strider's dagger. Carving away at the wet logs, she uncovered dry wood underneath, and with that, the dry pieces of the fallen logs, and the dead leaves from days before, she was able to spark a fire. She formed a cone shape with the kindling and they caught fire quickly.

"I was always very good at building fires," she said proudly, "Best in my Girl Guide group."

"Your what?" Asked Merry.

Should've kept her mouth shut, she thought. "It's like… Rangers, where I'm from. Young people are taught such things, so that when they leave home, they are prepared for the wild."

Now the others perked up their ears. Any tale on a night like this would be welcome, especially from their quietest companion.

"Well do tell us more, then!" Pippin requested eagerly.

She had put herself in a corner, and now she needed to get herself out of it, but at the same time be as honest as possible to her friends. "As you know, I grew up between the mountains and the sea," she began, "On a farm, with my mothers and my siblings."

"And what of your father?" Interrupted Merry.

"I never knew him. Mom and Mama wanted a baby, and so they found a man to give them one." To throw them off that track, she quickly swapped to a different subject. "I learned all that the farm had to teach, and when I became an adult I was sent out into the wild."

The hobbits were appalled by this. "They just cast you out?" Merry looked shocked, "Did you do something wrong?"

"No, no, it's just the way of things where I'm from."

"Doesn't seem right, leaving your family like that." Sam seemed scornful.

Emma quickly reassured him. "We return, spend time with our families. Especially for the winter celebrations." Now it was time to swing the subject away completely, for tears were starting to well up in her eyes as she remembered her family so far away. "My life was quiet, until recently. But tell us of the Shire - it seems peaceful, and we need those kind of tales tonight."

The mention of winter celebrations brought out stories of Yule in the Shire, filled with incredible, great feasts, and sometimes dusted with snow. There were old tales, of the Old Took and his fireworks in the clear winter skies, and recent ones, of Fatty Bolger's mischief in stealing the roast boar. Emma fell asleep with a smile that night.

The rain had stopped by morning, but the cold remained. Strider left early to scout where they were, and when he returned they found out he had led them too far north, and they had to move south-east, lest they travel into troll country.

Clambering through the brush was worse that day. Hands were numb and clammy, cloaks and boots were damp, and Frodo seemed to be doing worse. As the day wore on, they realized that they could not walk their way out of the hills and would need to climb.

Emma, Sam, and Strider took what extra bags had been on the pony as they made their way upwards, trying their best to keep Frodo on the pony - but it became to much of a struggle, and the injured hobbit was forced to dismount and climb with Merry and Pippin's assistance.

Between the physical exhaustion and the emotional toll of speaking of her family the night before meant that she was dead silent that day. Her usual quietness was tinged with sullenness.

Frodo collapsed when they reached the top, and was quickly bundled up as Emma started to collect firewood. She heard them discussing Frodo's wound behind her.

"Do you think they will be able to cure him in Rivendell, if we ever get there?" Merry was taking a stand for his cousin, demanding answers from Strider.

"We shall see. There is nothing more that I can do in the wilderness; and it is chiefly because of his wound that I am so anxious to press on. But I agree that we can go no further tonight." Strider's voice betrayed his stress. When Sam pleadingly asked what was wrong with his master, he answered, "Frodo has been touched by the weapons of the Enemy, and there is some poison or evil at work that is beyond my skill to drive out. But do not give up hope, Sam!"

"Nor you, Frodo." Emma said to him as she lay her kindling down by him. He offered a weak smile, but no more.

As she curled up under her cloak that night, shivering from the cold, Emma was beginning to panic. Why hadn't the elf shown up yet? When were they supposed to reach Rivendell? Their rations were almost gone, her extras long since. They were supposed to find the trolls too, weren't they? If they didn't find the trolls by tomorrow she would scream - for all she had grown up in rural areas, playing in the woods, this long, awful, terrifying journey was fraying its nerves to their very ends. The taste of copper hit her tongue and she realized she'd been biting her lip.

Emma did not sleep that night. Her watch was the last, and she watched the sunrise beleaguredly. The bleeding lip had swollen over night, and so she faced away from the hobbits and Strider when they awoke, trying to hide it. They were focused on Frodo, who was feeling better that day.

Thankfully their journey through was easier, and Pippin managed to find them an actual trail. It was long-overgrown, but it made the trip easier, and at the end of it they found a cliff with a hole built into it, and an old door hanging crookedly from its hinges.

The trolls! Emma nearly shrieked with delight, but contained herself as best she could. Nevertheless, there was a definite spring in her step as she approached the door, and Strider, Sam, Merry and her wrenched it open. It contained nothing but bones and broken pots.

"Surely this is a troll-hole, if ever there was one!" Shouted Pippin, "Come out, you all, and let us get away. Now we know who made the path - and we had better get off it quick."

"There is no need, I think," called back Strider as he left the cave, "It is certainly a troll-hole, but it seems to have been long forsaken. I don't think we need be afraid. But let us go on down warily, and we shall see."

The hobbits seemed to have forgotten that trolls were unable to come out during the daylight, but Strider seemed to have no intention of telling them, and she wasn't going to ruin his fun - it was the happiest he had looked since Weathertop. Frodo's turn for the better was likely part of it.

Sure enough, Pippin and Merry, who had scouted ahead, came running back with news of trolls.

"There are trolls!" Pippin panted. "Down in a clearing in the woods not far below. We got a sight of them through the tree-trunks. They are very large!"

"We will come and look at them." Strider picked up a stick and went forward, the hobbits following him with deep concern. Emma tried to hide her smile.

They crept forward and peered through the tree-trunks, and there they were: three large trolls, huddled in a circle.

Strider went forward, wielding his stick aloft. "Get up, old stone!" He cried out, and snapped it on one of the trolls, which remained frozen

The hobbits gasped, then suddenly Frodo burst into laughter. "We are forgetting our family history! These must be the very three that were caught by Gandalf, quarrelling over the right way to cook thirteen dwarves and one hobbit." He beamed at them.

"I had no idea we were anywhere near the place!" Pippin explored around the stone trolls with some caution, and the others began to join them.

As Strider lectured them with amusement on troll facts, Emma reached out and lay a hand on the stooping troll, feeling the stone under her hand. With a gasp of delight, Emma felt completely refreshed. It was a slap in the face reminding her that she wasn't just on a harrowing journey through the woods with five men, but she was in Middle-earth! There were trolls frozen in time, hobbits who loved to eat everything in their path, and stories and poetry always. There was never a time of only darkness. Giggling softly, she clambered around the area, imagining with perfect clarity now how the scene with Bilbo and the dwarves may have gone. The stress and nerves of the night before had flown away.

"Won't somebody give us a bit of a song, while the sun is high?' Asked Merry, after they had all explored and had a bite to eat. Emma had even brewed a pot of tea. "We haven't had a song for days."

"Not since Weathertop," said Frodo, and added when they looked at him with some concern, "Don't worry about me! I feel much better, but I don't think I could sing. Perhaps Sam could dig something out of his memory."

"Come on, Sam!" Said Merry, "There's more stored in your head than you let on about."

"I don't know about that," Sam said, rather flustered, "But how would this suit? It ain't what I call proper poetry, if you understand me: just a bit of nonsense. But these old images here brought it to my mind." He stood up, hands behind his back, and began to sing:

"Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,  
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;  
For many a year he had gnawed it near,  
For meat was hard to come by.  
Done by! Gum by!  
In a case in the hills he dwelt alone,  
And meat was hard to come by.  
Up came Tom with his big boots on.  
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?  
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,  
As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.  
Caveyard! Paveyard!  
This many a year has Tim been gone,  
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard.'  
'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.  
But what be bones that lie in a hole?  
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,  
Afore I found his shinbone.  
Tinbone! Thinbone!  
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,  
For he don't need his shinbone.'  
Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee  
Without axin' leave should go makin' free  
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;  
So hand the old bone over!  
Rover! Trover!  
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;  
So hand the old bone over!'  
'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,  
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.  
A bit o' fresh meal will go down sweet!  
I'll try my teeth on thee now.  
Hee now! See now!  
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;  
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'  
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,  
He found his hands had hold of naught.  
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind  
And gave him the boot to larn him.  
Warn him! Darn him!  
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,  
Would be the way to larn him.  
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone  
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.  
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,  
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.  
Peel it! Heal it!  
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,  
And he knew his toes could feel it.  
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,  
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;  
But Troll don't care, and he's still there  
With the bone he boned from its owner.  
Doner! Boner!  
Troll's old seat is still the same,  
And the bone he boned from its owner!"

Merry was delighted, laughing heartily. "Well, that's a warning to us all! It is as well you used a stick, and not your hand, Strider!"

"Where did you come by that, Sam?" Asked Pippin, "I've never heard those words before."

"It's out of his own head, of course," said Frodo, over Sam's own sheepish murmurings, "I am learning a lot about Sam Gamgee on this journey. First he was a conspirator, now he's a jester. He'll end up by becoming a wizard - or a warrior!"

"I hope not," said Sam, "I don't want to be neither!"

A twinge of sadness went through Emma, knowing what would come for him, and as they set out along the trail, she thought deeply on the character of Samwise Gamgee.

They were now passing through forest that was familiar to the hobbits, if only in stories. Strider pointed out to them a rock covered in carved runes, where Bilbo, Gandalf, and the dwarves had found the treasure of the trolls. Shadows had lengthened and a cold wind was stirring up as they finally reached the road.

It was when they began to find a camping spot that they heard it - the sound of hooves trotting along the road.

They all scrambled into the heather bushes along the road, finding a hazel thicket to watch the road from. But the hooves were lighter and the sound of bells followed them.

Emma nearly threw herself out of the bushes in joy at hearing the coming elf, but she did her best to remained composed. When the rider came into view, golden-haired and on a white horse, it was Strider who ran down to the road, crying out greetings in Elvish to him. The rider's voice was musical and unusual to her ear, her first experience of the otherworldliness of the elves.

They were beckoned down by Strider, and as they approached the road, he introduced them to Glorfindel, who lived in Rivendell. It was all Emma could do to prevent herself from collapsing into the arms of the beautiful Elf-Lord and weeping in relief.

"Hail, and well met at last!" Glorfindel said, particularly to Frodo, "I was sent from Rivendell to look for you. We feared that you were in danger upon the road."

"Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?" Asked Frodo in hope.

"No. He had not when I departed; but that was nine days ago," Glorfindel let down the hobbit gently, "Elrond received news that troubled him. Some of my kindred, journeying in your land beyond the Baranduin, learned that things were amiss, and sent messages as swiftly as they could. They said that the Nine were abroad, and that you were astray bearing a great burden without guidance, for Gandalf had not returned."

The elf continued on, telling them of how he had been searching for them along the road. Emma realized where Strider got his penchant for carrying on and on from, being raised among the monologuing elves.

But all this was set aside as Frodo suddenly gasped and fell against Sam, clutching his arm. As Strider told Glorfindel of what had happened at Weathertop, the Elf-Lord picked up Frodo and carried him, looking over his wound. He decided that Frodo would ride his horse, which was large and noble-looking, an elf-horse built to be swift and powerful. As such, Emma stayed well away from it, choosing to give their pony a rubbing down and tell it how wonderful it was. Though Frodo objected to riding the horse, which could take him away from the danger as fast as anything should the Black Riders appear, and leaving his friends behind, he was convinced.

Their pony was once again loaded up with all their burdens, lighter now that their rations were nearly spent. With their extra bags gone, Emma passed along the torches made from the cloak of the Nazgûl, now smelling horrifically, but hardly noticeable amongst their own smells, unbathed and sweaty for so long. Glorfindel admired the strange torches.

"These are to be used against the Enemy?" He raised his eyebrows as he borrowed Pippin's, looking over it, "You carried a cloak of the Black Riders all this way - fashioning a weapon, taking a part of themselves and turning it against them. Where did you learn such a thing? And," he took a sniff and wrinkled his nose, "What have you added to them?"

"Bacon grease. It makes them burn harder." Emma answered.

"'Burn brighter,'" the elf corrected her, "Where do you harken from?"

"From between the mountains and the sea." She said simply, then slipped away to take the reigns of the pony. Strider can deal with the rest of it for her, she figured. There were more important things to deal with than her hometown at the moment.

They were on a forced march until dawn, when Glorfindel allowed them a rest amongst the heather. It wasn't long, and they were quickly on the move again, exhausted, but so close to the last river and the safety of Rivendell. They were given an interesting draught, clear and tasteless, but strengthening. He only allowed them two very brief rests, and by Strider's estimates he had them cover twenty miles that day.

During that twenty miles, Emma studied the elf, much the way she had when she'd first met Strider, and the hobbits. For all that elves were said to be ethereally handsome and beautiful, Glorfindel did nothing for her - too finely featured and fair looking. Strider was still more her type, greasy as he was out in the wild. There was an otherworldliness to Glorfindel, like he might slip into another world entirely at any moment. On occasion he spoke to Strider in an Elvish tongue, and he glanced back towards her, but she shrugged at him. Would've been nice if Tom Bombadil had granted her more than one language, but she would take what she could get.

The hobbits were not held to a watch schedule that night, but Emma and Strider were. She was given the first shift, allowing her to pass out immediately afterwards. During her shift she tried to clean her sword, still slightly browned from the grease, and checked to see if there was any chance of getting more grease that she could use to light the sword again. There was none, so instead she kept the flour packets in her pockets.

"Here," a musical voice to her left said. Glancing over, she saw Glorfindel holding out flint and steel, "Strider told me of your skills with fire - this will assist you."

Thanking him gently, she took it in hand, and struck, making sparks appear. She smirked.

The next morning they were moving downhill, and there was gentle grass that the hobbits often walked through to ease their aching feet.

"Our peril will be greatest just ere we reach the river, for my heart warns me that the pursuit is now swift behind us, and other danger may be waiting by the Ford." Said Glorfindel. He and Strider had moved into a formation, with them at the back to protect them in case of pursuit. Emma, too, found herself in position. Frodo was at the front of the company, and she was now to walk beside it, taking up the forward position in case the Black Riders had managed to circle them and tried to attack from the front.

There was a tunnel at the bottom of the hill for them to pass through in the late afternoon. Everyone seemed to be on edge as they passed through, and Emma pulled out one of her flour rations, with the flint and steel ready to strike as soon as necessary.

It was when they left the tunnel and saw flat land ahead to the Ford of Rivendell that Glorfindel paused, and Emma instantly knew what would happen.

"Fly!" He cried out, "Fly! The enemy is upon us!"

They ran forward, in position, as Black Riders burst out from the trees around them. Once again chased by them, Emma felt the same fear take her that she had felt that first night in the Barrowdowns; the world slowed and everything seemed to be in incredible minuscule detail. In those details, she heard the pants and breaths of the hobbits, and she shook the fear off, readying herself to fling the flour bombs behind her. Glorfindel was calling out for Frodo to ride ahead, but he was hesitating, Emma saw, in a thrall caused by the Nazgûl's wound. She nearly slapped the horse's hindquarters to send it off, but Glorfindel gave it a command in Elvish and off it went, Frodo barely hanging on. Emma ran after him.

The Black Rider behind them gave that horrifying piercing shriek, and it was answered, more Riders coming out of the trees in pursuit of Frodo. With everything she had, Emma struck the flint and steel, lighting the edges of the flour bomb, and flung it forward. It burst in mid-air, the fire lighting it up in a large and distracting, but mostly harmless, show. It was enough to startle the Riders and make them scatter out of formation for a moment, giving Frodo a lead.

All exhaustion forgotten with this new wind of adrenaline, Emma kept running after them, not fast enough to keep up in any way, but refusing to lose Frodo. Glorfindel and Strider caught up to her easily, and as he passed, Strider stopped, grabbing her by the arm.

"The torches!" He commanded as Merry, Pippin, and Sam reached them, Nazgûl cloak torches ready and out, and she lit them as fast as she could, lighting Frodo's for Strider. They went back to the chase, Glorfindel in the distance now, and dimly they could see the Riders and Frodo in the river.

Very distantly, they heard Frodo. "Go back!' He cried, "Go back to the Land of Mordor, and follow me no more!"

A strange maternal pride welled in Emma, even as she began to taste coppery bile in her mouth from her forced run.

"Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you!" The Nazgûl called to Frodo, their voices like the Gregorian chanting of demons, "The Ring! The Ring!"

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair," Frodo's voice was fading, but they were now close enough to hear him, "You shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

They finally reached the ford, waving their torches at the Black Riders, forcing them into the water. There was a thundering sound from the river, and with astonishment Emma saw the river form into the shape of horses and ride hard towards them. Powerful voices seemed to cry out from above, joining in with Glorfindel's cries in Elvish, and she regained her sense of self enough to light another flour bomb, throwing it at a Black Rider whose horse was trying to escape the river. It reared backwards, stumbling into another, and was washed away by the river.

When the waters began to settle, they all rushed forward, racing to Frodo, Sam ahead of them all. He lay there on the bank, cold, but Glorfindel's horse stood guard by him.

"Frodo!" Cried Merry and Pippin, falling over him with Sam, and Emma hit the ground on her knees hard beside him, feeling for his pulse at his neck. It was there, but faint.

Behind them, voices cried out in the Elvish tongue, and they looked up to see Glorfindel and Strider greeting a new group of Elves, dressed for fighting and with many horses. Strider glanced back at them, his face pale and drawn as he stared down at Frodo.

The elves were quick in organization. Frodo was collected and handed off to the fastest riders, who took him and Glorfindel and rode with as much haste as possible towards Rivendell.

Emma, Strider, and the other hobbits were left to be collected by the others, in spite of Sam's panic over Frodo. They given more of the liqueur that Glorfindel had introduced to them, giving them strength, but they were coming down from the adrenaline of the fight and were still weary.

As the hobbits were hoisted onto horses shared with elves, Emma leaned over onto Strider's shoulder, wrapping her arm around him. He looked at her strangely. "After all this," she said, slurring slightly with exhaustion, "Are we friends now?"

Chuckling very wearily, he wrapped his arm around her as well, supporting her weight. "I believe so, Emma Smith." He helped one of the elves take her on a horse, for she was very quickly losing consciousness.

Emma slept through their entry into Rivendell.


	8. In the House of Elrond, or Emma Receives Every Grad Students' Dream - Employment

Emma woke up in a comfortable bed, in fresh sheets, and wearing a soft nightshirt. For a moment, before she could even bear to open her eyes, she was desperately confused. Her first thought was that she was at home in her apartment, but there wasn't nearly enough pillows for that to be true. Then, she remembered Tom Bombadil, and that she must be in his house once more - but that was quashed by all the aches and pains in her body. At what seemed to be long last, she remembered the river, the battle, and the elves coming to take them up.

Her eyes flew open in the House of Elrond.

The room she was in was bright with sunlight, the windows wide open even though it was October. They showed an incredible view, and Emma swung herself out of bed, stumbling over to the window to gape at the expanse of the valley. Green fields shone in the sunlight, hemmed in by forests and imposing cliffs with waterfalls cascading down the sides. There were other buildings nearby, their architecture dreamlike with spiralling iron and arched windows and doorways. Birds sung in the distance, a nearby river softly rushed, and Emma felt more at peace than she had in weeks.

There was a call from the pathway nearby, and Emma stuck out her head to see two women, with very delicate features and cascading dark hair.

"Mae g'ovannen!" One cried out to her, "You are awake!"

"Uh..." Emma looked down at the beautiful women, her mind short-circuiting, "I... am?"

They looked at each other and giggled softly. "We will bring you some bath water," the other said, "And some fresh clothes."

Glancing down at herself, Emma realised that she was still a wreck from her journey from Bree to Rivendell. Blushing furiously, she raced back into her room, looking around. The room itself was filled with light wood and round arches, and there were two candelabras made with twisting wrought iron that she ran her hands along. There was a copper bathtub and a wardrobe, and a desk to the side of the room had curling legs and intricate Celtic-like designs along the edges. On it was a mirror, several small vials, and her bag. The mirror was nearly as fine as any modern ones, and looking into it she pulled a face. Her hair was matted and unwashed for several days, leaving it greasy and stringy. Having not been able to wash her face for so long, there was a scattering of zits along her jawline, and her eyes were dark and baggy.

Going through her bag she found her comb and began the hard work of untangling her hair. She had just finished the ends when there was a knock at the door.

The two elves from before were there, carrying buckets of hot water. "Allow us to help you," one of them said, also holding what appeared to be a change if clothes over her arm,, "You had a very long journey, bringing the Ring-bearer here."

"I am Gwendril," introduced the other one, "And this is Briën." They got to work, filling the tub and encouraging Emma to get in. They brought over the small vials, which she was delighted to find were various soaps and shampoos, and as she cleaned herself, they worked away at her hair, unmatting the braid.

All the while they chattered aimlessly, remarking over the redness of Emma's hair, sadly noting all her cuts and bruises, and when she proved to not be a very avid conversationalist, switching into Sindarin to have their own discussions. Emma only spoke up once, asking how Frodo was. They told her that Lord Elrond had been with him all night, and that his wound was expected to heal, and she returned to grateful silence. Somehow during that time they managed to untangle her hair, and they helped her to get out of the bath, dry, and dress.

Just being clean was helping Emma immensely, and when they gave her clean clothes she nearly yanked them from Briën's hands. The pure white shift had a v-neck and was soft and nearly translucent with draping sleeves, and the overdress was a cheery yellow wool, sleeveless, with green leaf embroidery along the edges, and miraculously with pockets. They also gave her some soft slippers. Her travelling clothes were off being washed, she was told, though normally they would be expected to clean their own clothes. An exception was made for the hobbits and Men who had taken the perilous journey. Gwendril decided that they would take her to the kitchens, and they quickly shepherded her to the door, though not before she managed to grab her pouch with the ring and her coin and shove it into her pocket.

Emma did her best to take in Rivendell as they walked. The two elves watched her with amusement as she stared in awe at the incredible scenery and architecture nearby. Other elves passed by them, and they called out greetings, first in Sindarin to Gwendril and Briën, then in Westron to her. She did her best to greet them back, while still reeling from the concept of actually being in Rivendell. She'd thought the trolls had been a stark enough reminder that she was in Middle-earth, but they had nothing on the majesty of the last Homely House.

The kitchens were bustling with elves, going to and fro as they baked and cooked. Strider was already there, sitting in a corner, a cup of water in one hand and a small round of herb bread in the other. He had also bathed, and Emma could now see past Strider, the Ranger, and see Aragorn, the future king. She was handed her own bread and cup by a cheerful young elf, and bid to sit by the man.

He lifted his cup in greeting as she joined him, dodging various elves as she made her way over. "Is it always so busy?" She asked, sitting down with a 'humph'.

"Rarely so," Strider answered her, "For we are not Lord Elrond's only guests at this time. The Lonely Mountain has also sent a delegation, and Gandalf is here as well." His voice took on a grave tone, "It appears that at this time, there is a crossing of many paths in Middle-earth."

But then a smile lit on his face. "But as well, we have brought four hobbits to Rivendell. They have hosted Bilbo for long enough that they know their appetites."

Grinning, Emma sat back with him and watched the kitchens move. The elves were fascinating, sleek and tall, most with dark hair tied up in intricate braids, and pointed ears. Strider noticed her interested looks.

"Are they no elves in your home?" He asked softly.

She didn't want to answer there, where all the elves were, and he accepted her silence. After they finished their breakfast, he stood up and offered his hand, and they left the kitchens, walking through the corridors of Rivendell. Emma continued to stare about at everything, completely fascinated. On one hand, it was as so intricate and beautiful - but on the other, she could understand how the finely detailed work had been lost to the ages, if she had travelled back in time rather than into the books.

They walked in amiable silence for some time before Strider began. "I have spoken with Lord Elrond and Gandalf about your situation."

"Oh?" Not Mithrandir, though. Then again, everyone in Middle-earth had about eighty different names, so maybe Gandalf was Mithrandir.

"They were interested in your claims, that you came from the future," he continued, and he indicated that she should sit at a bench they had come upon. "No doubt you will be summoned today to speak to them."

Emma nodded, having figured as much. "Will you be there?"

"I will."

"Have you made up your mind about me?"

He thought for a moment before answering her. "I believe that you believe what you say. Whether it is true, or you are unwell, I cannot determine – I shall leave that to the others," he placed his hand comfortingly on her shoulder, "If it is true, we shall do all in our power to help you return to your home. If you are unwell, then you are among the best healers of the elves, and shall be safe from harm."

"Oh good," she joked wearily, "My edgelord thirteen-year-old self will be so glad her straightjacket is of elven-make."

Strider furrowed his brows. "How do you mean, 'edgelord'?"

"Do you remember when you were thirteen and thought you were super tough and cool and dark things were the best?"

"No."

Throwing up her hands, she rolled her eyes. "Alright, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir, you just be better than the rest of us mortals."

He laughed, and as he did so a woman walked into the corridor, though it did not appear so for she was so graceful she seemed to float. Her hair flowed down her back in dark waves like a river, and her face was so elegant, so finely featured, that Emma couldn't keep her eyes away. She wore a deep purple wool gown, with a translucent linen visible just along the hems. At her neck was a shining crystal pendant, that was nearly as bright in the sunlight as the woman's eyes were when they landed on Aragorn.

So this, Emma realized, was Arwen, the second coming of Luthien.

Emma scooched aside as Aragorn stood up and strode immediately to his betrothed, a smile she'd never seen before on his face. An envy crept up in her heart, but which one she was envious of she couldn't say.

After some soft greetings between the lovers in Elvish, Aragorn turned around and waved Emma to them. "Arwen Undómiel, may I introduce you to Emma Smith? She has journeyed with the hobbits since they left the Shire."

Arwen, poised and lovely, smiled at Emma with such sweetness Emma thought her heart might burst. "It is a pleasure, Emma Smith. You have done much for us, escorting the Ringbearer safely here."

"It was nothing, the pleasure is mine, Arwen Undómiel." She stumbled on pronouncing the second name and simply prayed that she hadn't messed up anything else. Deciding that the two needed some time alone, she excused herself quickly and scurried away.

The main problem with being among the elves was the hit to her self esteem. As clean as she was now, the ethereal beauty of the elves just reminded her of her long face, strong nose, and excessive amount of freckles all over her body, not to mention the zits from the wild. At least she was of a height with them, at a few inches under six feet.

Glorfindel found her, hiding out and staring over the landscape with dreamy eyes.

"You are called to a small council," he told her, "Aragorn says you have news and a tale to tell us."

This was it. The pressure was on her now. She nodded and followed him along the path, rubbing her arms. The day had worn on, quickly since she had woken late, and she requested that they stop in the guest rooms to let her get her cloak. Glorfindel also advised her to bring her sword, as Gandalf had mentioned interest in it.

The place Glorfindel took her was the largest building in Rivendell, with the finest views overlooking the river and valley. They passed balconies and gazebos, dedicated viewing areas, and passed through grand doors inside to a large hall with an intricate stairway and several doors to the left and right. They entered the farthest of these doors, into a small chamber with narrow, open windows.

Already there was Aragorn, having torn himself away from Arwen, no doubt. But there were three others, two elves and an old man sitting there.

Gandalf was easy to tell, dressed in heavy grey robes, with a silver beard. Elrond, too, not for his dress, but his air. He was ancient and wise, and it was reflected in his demeanour – Emma had never really understood the concept of 'commanding a room' until she saw him. The other elf she did not recognize, nor could she guess at who he was. They sat in an arc of chairs, five of them, facing a single lonely chair, her own for the coming inquisition.

As she entered Aragorn rose and came to her side, allowing Glorfindel to sit as he handled the introductions.

"This is Emma Smith," he began, "And Emma, may I introduce Lord Elrond," the lord of Rivendell nodded graciously at her, "Erestor, his advisor," the unknown elf smiled kindly, "And Gandalf the Grey."

Gandalf, or Mithrandir, she supposed, smiled up at her with gentle crinkled eyes. "I have heard from Merry, Pippin, and Sam of how you protected them during their journey."

"They helped me as well." She responded, and sat down as Aragorn did. Staring at all of these intimidating men she felt as though she was defending her Master's thesis all over again. But then she had solid facts and evidence to back herself up – here it was only her and her tale.

The questioning began with Elrond. "Miss Smith, I have heard that you claimed to be of Lindon?"

"That is not true," she said simply. It would be better to keep things strictly to business. "Frodo and the others assumed that when I told them that my homeland was between the mountains and the sea, in the west. I allowed the assumption to remain."

"And why did you allow that?"

"A wandering woman from Lindon was less strange than my actual story." She shrugged.

Gandalf nodded his head towards her. "Do tell us, if you will."

For all it sounded, it was not a request. Emma thought for a moment, then began. "My name is Emma Smith, and I was born in the year 1992. I was born to Tamora and Rachel Smith, farmers in the country of Canada, where their families immigrated to two-hundred and one-hundred years ago. My mothers would later have two more children, Samuel and Sara.

"By profession, I am a scholar. I study my time's equivalent of the barrows, particularly their place in law writings from thirteen hundred years ago. I was visiting a town to see one such barrow, and on my walk there I went to see a place known as Dragon Hill, named because there is a bare patch of chalk where a dragon was supposedly killed." At this her audience's eyebrows flew up, but she continued, "While there I stumbled and hit my elbow on an item in the chalk, and I found this," from her pouch Emma drew out the dwarven ring. Immediately Elrond leaned forward with his hand out to see it.

"Incredible," he murmured, overlooking the gem, "I last saw this on the hand of King Nain the Second," he told the others, "Not long after he fell before dragon-fire. And you found this buried in chalk?"

With a short nod, Emma reached out to take it back, then continued on. "I then went to the barrow. There was a storm coming in, and I wanted to see it to decide what equipment to bring." After a thought, she added, "As well, my family used to live near the barrow. During the time period I study, it was renamed Wayland's Smithy, after a blacksmithing god, and there was a legend that if you left a coin at the step and your horse in the grove, Wayland would re-shod your horse overnight. That was us," she said proudly, "My family was the legend. When I went up to the entrance of the barrow, I found a coin. When I bent to pick it up, a gust of wind blew me over, and I found myself in a different barrow."

They remained silent, but they took the coin she held out, passing it around. Emma kept going. "I was very confused, as I was suddenly trapped in a dark barrow, I had none of my clothes or things with me, and the only items I could find were the ring and the coin. While searching for my clothes, I found the sword and scabbard, and pulled on some fabric. Turned out the fabric was attached to something – I now know it was a wight. I escaped outside and found myself in a completely different landscape from where I had entered. I started walking, with no other options, eventually reaching the Old Forest as night fell. When I reached the forest, I heard hooves behind me, and the Black Riders were there."

The men all took a sharp breath, and she turned to Aragorn with an apologetic look. "I should have told you I'd seen them before, but there never seemed to be the right time. I'm sorry." He nodded in return, accepting her apology, she hoped, "They did their awful screeching, and their horses saw me, and began to give chase. I ran into the forest, barely escaping. In there I met Tom Bombadil, and he gave me the words of Westron – not the skill to use it, necessarily. He and Goldberry took me in, and two days later the hobbits arrived. Tom had told me that Lord Elrond and Mithrandir may be able to help me find my home, and so I left with the hobbits to Bree, where we met with Aragorn."

She ended her story there, folding her hands in her lap and waiting to hear their questions.

Erestor was the first to ask. "When you say you are born in 1992, which age is that?" He queried. His voice was soft, but somehow conveyed much wisdom.

"Er, we don't keep track of those?" Emma shrugged, "From what I know of history and such, perhaps the fifth or sixth?"

"So you have travelled here from around six thousand years in the future?" It seemed to astonish Glorfindel.

Emma thought that sounded about right. "I can't really prove it, though, as none of my advanced technology came with me," she sighed, very aware of how utterly strange she sounded, "I only have one bit left, but as it's physically inside of me, I can't show you."

"What is it?" Pressed Erestor.

She pressed her lips together thinly. "It… prevents me from having children. For a period of five years. Well, three and a half now."

Immediately they all shifted awkwardly, and the discussion was shifted away to other topics. What was her theory as to how she arrived? Did Tom Bombadil believe her story, and what did he say to it? At least the fact that she had met Tom Bombadil and he was fond of her had some good bearing on her, and she mentally thanked the hobbits for passing that info on to Gandalf. They pressed her for bits and pieces of what the future was like, who were world leaders, what were the fascinations of the age? Elrond seemed particularly interested in her knowledge of medical technology. As well, they asked her about her family – the acceptance of her mothers being married, who her father may have been – explaining sperm banks to elves was worse than explaining computers to Tom Bombadil.

The questioning lasted the better part of an hour before they subsided, and Aragorn turned to Elrond and Gandalf. "Though more detailed, her tale has not changed from what she told me in the Weatherhills. Do you believe her to speak true?"

For a moment, Elrond sat silently, thinking deeply and staring right at her. At last, he spoke. "I do believe her," he said, rather gravely, "I have no sense of madness from her, and her story has enough details to ring true. And any agent of the Enemy would be foolish to present such a story." Thanks for being smarter than me, Enemy, Emma sarcastically thought, "These are strange and dark times, and many have been called upon by fate to fulfill strange tasks. A hobbit of the Shire bearing the Ring of Power, a wanderer from the North with the blood of Isildur, a traveller from distant times with the last free Dwarven ring – fate has brought these people together under the nose of the Enemy."

The others accepted Elrond's decree, and Emma relaxed in relief, smiling at Aragorn, who returned it. She wouldn't reside in Middle-earth deemed a madwoman.

"Her story also explains why the wights were far more active than they had been in several years," pointed out Gandalf, "The Witch King stirred them up. I must say, the hobbits' theory of Miss Smith's origins was far more plausible." Gandalf hummed, and Aragorn agreed.

"What have they been saying about me?" Emma asked, very curious as to her friends' theories.

"Why, that you're the last heir of Cardolan."

A pin could have dropped in that room and been heard, not even considering the ears of the elves.

"What."

"Oh yes," Aragorn seemed amused, at least, "You do carry the last symbols of the king of Cardolan, after all. His sword and sigil, and Tom Bombadil's poems about how you fought the wights with the sword of the king…"

"Oh no," she covered her face with her hands, "I never said that I was!"

Gandalf chuckled. "Your secretiveness, though understandable, was taken as confirmation of your being the hidden heir to the kingdom."

"Are you kidding me?" She jabbed a finger at Aragorn, "He's the heir of Isildur and he never shuts up!"

Burying her head in hands, she started to apologize but it was drowned out by Glorfindel and Gandalf's booming laughter. The others fought smiles, aside from Aragorn who looked a bit put out.

Coughing to clear his throat, Gandalf smiled gently at her. "Regardless, it is done. They have kept it to themselves, at least, so it is not widely thought."

Still Emma wished that her friends hadn't come up with such ideas. She didn't like to let them down.

"Now, what shall we do with the ring?" Elrond's question brought new alertness to the room. The thought had passed over Emma a few times, but she figured it would be someone else's problem.

They discussed it for some time, her sitting awkwardly and quietly as the debated their options. Obviously the ring could not go back to the dwarves, who would covet and hoard a ring of power. Should the Enemy succeed, gaining another ring would grant him more power, this time especially over the dwarven kingdoms, since he already held three rings. It would need to be kept safe, and if the worst should happen, it would need to be destroyed.

"And who should carry this ring?" Asked Erestor finally, "If we do not return it to the dwarves, then who will hold this ring and keep it safe?"

Gandalf looked gravely at Emma. "I believe the ring has already chosen its bearer."

A chill ran down her back. "No. No, I came here to find a way home, not to babysit an evil ring." She ignored their confused look at her vocabulary as she continued, her words speeding up, "I have important things to do at home. My dissertation needs to be written, I had an appointment at Oxford that I've long since missed, my family..." Her voice caught, and she began swallowing back the lump in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes. The panic attack she'd been fighting for weeks was overwhelming her, "Please I – I need to go home."

A few tears escaped and began rolling down her cheeks and she furiously rubbed at them, trying to stop them from coming up. Hands reached out to her own, and there was Lord Elrond, holding her hands and smiling with sad eyes.

"Were we able to do so, we would send you home immediately," he told her kindly, "But in these times, there are desperate needs, and you must have been sent to us for one reason or another. We will not force you to carry this burden – but we will ask you to."

"I have some idea of how you may return to your home," said Gandalf thoughtfully, "If the coin was a token to allow you to travel through time to the Barrow-downs, no doubt another such offering to the gods of your people would allow you to return." He sighed heavily, "However, I agree with Elrond. You were brought to us for a reason, and we must ask you to take this burden. The dark lord must not also gain the ring of the dwarves, and it came to you."

Aragorn stood up and came to kneel at her side. "Until the time comes when we are able to return you to your home, I promise that I will stay by your side and help you."

Rubbing the last tears out of her eyes, Emma shook her head. "You have your own fate. I'm just a lost farm girl turned scholar – I can't exactly just tag along on your predetermined destiny."

A thoughtful and amused look entered Gandalf's eyes. "No, indeed, a farm girl turned scholar could not. However, the heir to Cardolan…"

Everyone's heads whipped toward him in astonishment.

"You cannot be serious, Gandalf." Said Elrond sternly, "We will take Miss Smith in among the elves, and put her in no further harm."

"The hands of fate have already put Miss Smith on this path," Gandalf argued, "The heir to Cardolan could walk beside the king with no questions asked. Who was the last of King Tarondor III's bloodline?" He directed this question at Aragorn.

The Ranger frowned in thought. "The last direct descendant was Dirhael, and he was slain by orcs to the south near twenty years ago. His next of kin, and heir, is Amdir, his cousin's son." Aragorn studied her face. "Her jaw, and eyes – yes, she could pass for his daughter, though the story would not hold water with others of the Dunedan."

With a heavy sigh, Lord Elrond nodded his assent. But he also turned to Emma. "Will you accept this, Miss Smith?"

Such a stressful day – she just gave up caring. "Yeah, cool. I'm the heir to Cardolan now? Why not. It's that kind of day."

Aragorn sympathetically patted her shoulder as she sighed and hung her head.

With the decision to allow Emma to stay, and to claim her as the heir to Cardolan, the small council was dismissed. Emma decided to head back to the kitchens, grab some more food, then return to her room for a nap.

To her surprise, Gandalf joined her. "Forgive me for pressing such a position on you. Only, there is darkness on the horizon, and we most use what we can to fight it."

Sighing heavily, she nodded. "I understand. It's just… rough. This is a very different life from my own, and I am used to softer comforts than those even found here with the elves."

"And you are not one of any great wealth, correct?" Gandalf's eyebrows rose, "Your culture must place a great deal of importance on their own comfort."

"To live in comfort is all that many ask for."

"You may have many comforts now, Lady Emma of Cardolan." He chuckled when she made a face at him, "It may seem strange at first, but judging by what you have told me, you may take to the life of royalty very quickly."

With that, Gandalf wandered away, and Emma found herself alone in the corridor. A door shut nearby, and she looked up to see Sam leaving a room. His face was drawn with worry when he saw her.

"Miss Emma!" He came over, "Am I ever glad to see you. Mr Bilbo has just sent me to fetch us some tea – could you sit with him and Mr Frodo awhile?"

"Of course, Sam," she looked over to the door, "That's where Frodo is resting?"

He nodded and went off down towards the kitchens, and she approached the door, knocking gently before she entered.

It was a beautiful room, even more magnificent than her own, but not in gaudy splendour. Rather, it had more natural light to it, and a view directly over the falls. In the bed lay Frodo, looking faint but peaceful, and beside him sat an old hobbit, back bent and hair white and curly. He glanced up, and Emma found herself looking into the eyes of Bilbo Baggins.

How many times had she read The Hobbit as a dreamy child, a surly teenager, a lonely adult? While the trilogy had been dry and difficulty to read on her own, she'd never had any difficulty reading about the fantastic journey of Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf, and the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. It had been a comfort read on those grey depressing days on the farm when her siblings were bothering her and mothers were bickering at each other. Now it was as though an old friend looked back at her, well-aged, and without knowledge of who she was.

Cautiously she sat down in the chair Sam had vacated, and Bilbo smiled up at her.

"With that hair and those freckles – you must be the Cardolan girl."

Well maybe he did know her. Either word moved so fast it literally moved through walls, or the hobbits had gossiped to their elder. "I might be," she held out a hand, "Emma Smith, at your service."

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours." He bowed his head, "Now, Emma is not a Dunedan name – you were not raised with them?"

It struck Emma that she did not have any new backstory to add the Cardolan portion. What was she supposed to say? "I grew up in Lindon, on a farm, unaware of my ancestry for several years."

He nodded sagely. "Of course, of course, much like our Ranger friend, Aragorn. He was raised here among the elves. What is your true name, then?"

"Er… Tzipporah." She threw out her middle name, the first thing that came to mind.

"Tzipporah, eh?" He pronounced it 'Sipora', "A very good farmer's name, but hardly one fitting a Dunedan heir to a throne – we'll have to give you another."

For all that she had spent years being embarrassed of her incredibly Jewish middle name, she now felt defensive of it. She turned away from Bilbo to smooth Frodo's sheets. He was still deathly pale.

"I do not know if I can bear it." Bilbo whispered behind her. When she turned to him, the door behind them opened, and Sam entered with a tray of tea and snacks, with Elrond following behind him.

The elf lord went to the other side of the bed, checking over Frodo's wound. Though the skin had healed, Emma could see the tight, purple-ish skin where it had been. Something had stopped them from healing it, but she could not remember what it was.

Sam looked hopefully up at the elf after setting the tea on the small table. "Is my master doing better?"

There was a grim look on his face. "We are doing all we can, Master Samwise," Lord Elrond told him, "But your master has proven himself sturdier and stronger than many men – we must believe in him."

Emma and the hobbits took their tea quietly and watched as Elrond chanted in a strange language over Frodo's body. There seemed to be a twinge of pain in Frodo's face before it smoothed out to be peaceful again.

Some time later, he finished and asked them all to leave so that Frodo would be left in peace, and they could all ready themselves for supper. Both hobbits protested, but were firmly sent out the door. When Emma tried to follow, she was stopped.

Lord Elrond led her back to the bed. "Tell me, with your knowledge healing from the future, what can we do to help him?" His face was grave and Emma realized that Frodo was still in danger of dying.

She went to the bed and pulled the sheets back a bit to see his arm. She pressed two fingers to his shoulder where the wound had been, feeling the hard muscle underneath. The tightened muscles continued down his arm, but it also felt cold and thin, and his face was cold and clammy.

"I never studied medicine," she said first, "But to me this feels like some sort of infection. Presumably supernatural? Back home I would say re-open the wound, pour some high proof alcohol on it, stitch it back up, and keep him constantly heated to sweat it out, but this isn't a bacterial infection." Shrugging, she felt Frodo's shoulder again. "Maybe leeches? To draw out the blood and make the muscles less stiff." That might not have been how it worked, but it was better than nothing.

Elrond nodded thoughtfully. "Leeches, you say? I believe our apothecary may have some."

As she left back to her room, Emma simply prayed that it would help Frodo, and that she hadn't done something irreparably stupid.

The urge to curl up in bed was very tempting to Emma, but she dragged herself through the process of washing her face and braid her hair in a coil on the back of her head. She wasn't sure if she should change for supper, but opted to just in case. In her bag she found the dress Goldberry had given her.

"What kind of sorcery…?" She muttered as the dress unravelled and showed itself unwrinkled. Supernatural beings had all the luck, she supposed. She pulled it over her Elven shift, then found her circlet from the Barrow-downs - if she was going to be royalty, she may as well look it.

After finding some elves to help her find her way to the dining hall, and when she entered she found a great hall filled with elves, along with a few hobbits and to her surprise, dwarves. Though she had grown used to the hobbits, and found the elves only slightly unnerving, the dwarves were a new race for her, and she caught herself staring before forcing her face away.

On a dais was a table filled with the great folk - Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, and Gandalf sat there, along with Aragorn, Arwen, and one of the dwarves. Emma found herself, like the hobbits, placed at a table near to the dais, in a seat of honour. Unfortunately, she was not sat with them, and instead found herself sharing her table with the rest of the dwarven party. After a longing glance cast at her friends, she sat down rather awkwardly.

"Well met!" One of the dwarves greeted her. His hair was thick and auburn, a deeper red than her own, and there were many intricate braids throughout it. He wore shining gold necklaces studded with gems, but the belt over his wool tunic was fine leather. "I was told there was only one other here with hair as red as mine - you must be the woman that arrived with the hobbits."

"Well met indeed," she repeated back his greeting stiltingly, figuring that to be best choice for etiquette, "Emma Smith, of Lindon, at your service. How do you do?"

Another dwarf slapped the table. "A smith are you? Wonderful!"

"Oh, no, my family used to be blacksmiths, but they are now farmers," Emma hurried to explain, "And we never made anything as skillful as the dwarves."

The red-haired dwarf smiled at her. "Indeed, we dwarves have the gift with metals, but no doubt the work of your ancestors was credible. I am Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service." He bowed his head over the table, and after the shock, Emma responded in kind. She paid half-mind to the other dwarves who sat around them who introduced themselves in turn. This was Gimli! How unbelievable was it that she could share a table with the dwarven member of the fellowship!

Food was soon served, and Emma received a meal more similar to the elves than the dwarves, she was relieved to find. While they had thick slabs of pork on their plates with rich sauces, her meal was autumn vegetables with a side of fish.

Sitting with the dwarves turned out to be fun. They had many tales about Dale and Erebor, and how they had developed since the Battle of Five Armies, making toys and trinkets, but also beautiful pieces of metalsmithy.

After the dinner, they all sojourned to the Hall of Fire, to hear songs and stories. There she found herself joined by Aragorn and the hobbits, who stole her back from the dwarves.

"Come now, Emma," Merry pulled her over to a corner with the others, where they had gathered comfortable chairs, and Bilbo sat waiting for them. Behind them, the bards began singing. "It's true, then? That you are the heir to Cardolan."

"It is true," Aragorn confirmed before she could answer, "Emma's father was my kin, Dirhael, and she is now the claimant to the lost kingdom of Cardolan."

"Frodo had thought so, he did!" Chimed in Pippin excitedly, "Mind you, we'd all guessed it by the time we left the Barrow-downs."

Emma just sighed and sat down heavily in her chair. "I'm surprised you all managed to piece that together." She said carefully.

"It wasn't so hard, from what I heard. The moment I saw you, I knew you must be of some noble descent." Insisted Bilbo, "Even if you were asleep on a horse. But truly, we must find you a name more appropriate to your standing."

"What's wrong with Emma?" Asked Merry, "It's a good, hobbit-like name."

Bilbo shook his head. "Not that one! Sipora! Hardly a name for a Dunadan, don't you think?" He turned to Aragorn for assistance in his argument as Emma scowled at him.

The ranger tried to hide a smile. "Sipora? Is that your name?"

"It's my… other name. Mama gave it to me. What's so funny about it?" She demanded.

"It means 'now flour.' Very appropriate for a farm girl, but perhaps not the heir of Cardolan." Aragorn chuckled, but Emma was not happy about it whatsoever.

"Actually, it's pronounced 'Tzipporah', and it means 'bird.'" Emma snapped at them, "Mama saw how pale and ginger I was and didn't want me to lose the connection to her culture."

Aragorn shot her a look to keep her from revealing more of her past, but luckily Bilbo's attention moved on. "Bird, bird, I can work something with bird…" He muttered, scrambling for a pen. Not too far away the dwarves began to sing, and the others turned to listen to their deep voices.

"You must be more careful with your words." Whispered Aragorn in her ear.

"You all are the ones making fun of my name. Only I get to do that." She whispered back sternly.

She heard him sigh softly, then felt his hand on her shoulder. "Tomorrow we begin your sword training again. Meet me at the oak tree beside the river at dawn." He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Emma watching his back.

"…How am I supposed to wake up without an alarm?"


	9. Many Meetings, or Emma Becomes Both Queen and Creator of the Undead

As it turned out, if you didn't wake up by dawn, Aragorn would throw apples through your window with unerring aim, leading Emma to spend her mornings at Rivendell practising swordsmanship with a large lump on her head.

The lessons covered more than just the sword - he also began schooling her on Cardolan and the other northern regions. His reasoning was that she needed to know of them in order to sell her backstory. To help with that was, to her surprise, Arwen. She joined them the second morning and began to teach Emma some Sindarin, as it was the other language spoken by Rangers. It would also be important to learn as few elves, including Arwen herself, spoke more than smattering of Westron. Often when Aragorn would give a particular move to drill, he would wander over to Arwen and the two would stand close together, fingers entwined and speaking low. So Emma found herself doing morning lessons with Aragorn and Arwen, and spending her afternoons with the hobbits at Frodo's side. In the evenings she sat with the dwarves and learned more of the culture of the dwarves.

It was just before noon on the third day when Elrond came to the river, finding Emma gasping out basic Sindarin phrases as Aragorn had her do basic strikes against him.

"May I take Miss Smith, Estel, Arwen?" He asked, with an odd look on his face.

Stepping back and lowering his sword, Aragorn allowed Emma to sheath her sword and catch her breath. From her seat by the river, Arwen rose and approached her father. "Is there something wrong?" She asked, her lovely voice filled with worry.

"There is something... strange." He answered, seeming unsure how to answer. This was clearly unusual, as Aragorn came with Emma as she went to the Elf-lord. "Perhaps you should all come see for yourselves."

They followed him to his study, silent, and full of worry. What could possibly have worried the great Lord Elrond so? When they arrived, they found Gandalf and Glorfindel there, waiting for them with bemused looks on their faces. On Elrond's desk was a jar of water, with a piece of silk floating inside.

"We took Miss Smith's suggestion, you see," he began, crossing to the desk and picking up the jar, "As she is from the future, I thought that perhaps she might have some ideas for helping Frodo's healing. She advised leaches, to draw some of the blood out. And, when we did so, it seemed to improve his condition. There was however, a side effect." He handed the jar to Aragorn, and the three peered at the water.

"There are no leeches, Lord Elrond - " began Aragorn, but stopped when he saw what was happening. The women beside him gasped, and Emma withdrew in alarm.

The silk had taken the shape of a swimming leech, but there was no leech to be seen.

"No mere leech, indeed," Elrond stated, with what seemed to be both amusement and alarm, "We now have leech wraiths!"

Everyone stared at the jar in horror. "I regret every decision I have made up to this moment." Emma whispered.

"We shall burn them, of course." Elrond took the jar back, placing it on his desk and covering it with a nearby cloth, "These leeches are now allies of the Enemy."

"The real question that comes of this, is what this means for Frodo," said Gandalf gravely, "That the leeches who drained his blood became wraiths, but not Frodo, seems very strange. Certainly, they have less strength than him..."

"The Morgul blade!" Aragorn gasped suddenly, "Had a piece broken off when it entered his shoulder, and stayed in the wound, it may be causing his prolonged suffering. The leeches may have absorbed the taint from it!" He, Elrond, and Gandalf rushed from the room.

Glorfindel picked up the jar, tucking the edges of the cloth around it. "I shall see to these." With a bow to Arwen, he left.

Emma was looking in the direction of Frodo's room when she felt a touch on her arm. "Perhaps I can teach you the tengwar of Sindarin." Arwen smiled softly, and led Emma out of the study.

Throughout the day she followed Arwen through Rivendell, the elf doing her best to distract her from her worry. They found a slate and chalk and went to the gardens, where Arwen taught her the letters of tengwar, and she practised writing the names of the autumn flowers. There they also found Sam - one of the elven gardeners had taken him under his wing, and was discussing the varieties of shrubs with him. Only Aragorn was with Frodo of their travelling party - all the others had elves, or in the case of Merry dwarves, helping to distract them.

It was a subdued evening - although there was a full dinner hosted in the hall, many chose to take their suppers elsewhere, as Elrond, Gandalf, and Aragorn were not present. Arwen presided over the hall, but Emma instead took her meal in one of Bilbo's rooms with the hobbits who were beside themselves with worry - they only had seconds, not thirds. Poetry and tales were recited, Emma throwing in some Edgar Allen Poe, before Bilbo realized he had one listener who had yet to hear of his travels, though Emma actually knew them quite well.

It was late in the evening, and Bilbo's tale had reached the trails of Mirkwood, when Gandalf and Aragorn arrived.

"Lord Elrond is still with him, but it is over at last," the wizard smiled, "Frodo is finally healed."

There was a shout of relief, and Emma and the hobbits relaxed in their chairs. As Pippin reached over to Emma for a fist bump, she saw Sam rub away at his eyes.

"Aw, Sam," she cooed, patting him on his back.

They were filled in - when Aragorn realized that there must have been a piece of the blade still in the wound, they had rushed to his room, sending away Sam and Bilbo. Then, over the next few hours, they had carefully re-opened the wound, searching out the sliver. When it was removed, Frodo almost immediately began to recover.

There was a recent pot of tea on the table, and after pouring out cups for the their newcomers they all raised a toast to Frodo's good health.

The next morning, word travelled that Frodo had woken up. It was brought to the dawn trio by Briën, who had been seeking out Arwen for some embroidery, and Emma found herself surprised by the relief she had felt. Of course she knew he would get better - she had read the books after all.

Arwen and Briën left, leaving Aragorn and Emma to their swordplay. His blocks were a little half-hearted after that.

"Sorry about that." She gritted out as she swung towards him.

"You are not skilled enough for that to have stung." He answered with a raised eyebrow.

Shaking her head, she stepped back with her sword. "No, about Arwen leaving. Aren't these lessons just an excuse for you two to spend time together, with me to make it less…" she searched for the word, "Untoward?"

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed. "Not entirely," he grinned, swinging up his sword and putting her on defence, "You will need to learn Sindarin if you are to live among us."

Barely blocking him, she tried one of the new strikes she learned. He let her poke his torso before stepping out of the way. "While it's true that Gandalf has a theory on how you may return to your time," continued Aragorn as he lunged forward, forcing her to jump back, "There is no guarantee that it will succeed. You must be prepared for living out your days here."

Emma scowled as she swung at him, their swords clashing loudly. "I refuse to accept that," she growled, "This is simply an extended trip. I * _will_ * return to my family."

"If you insist." With a twist of his sword, Emma's was wrenched out of her hand and flung to the ground.

They practised that move until lunchtime. Merry and Pippin were in the garden with Bilbo, and Emma joined them there. Apparently Sam was eating in a room close to Frodo's, so he could be there immediately if he was needed.

"We asked to eat there as well, but Gandalf said there was no need," pouted Pippin.

"He just didn't want you waking up Frodo, Pip," Merry pointed out.

Pippin's loud protests were enough to prove that true, and settled into their lunch of breads and spreads, along with a selection of fruit. A pot of strong tea was also on the table, and Emma helped herself to a few cups of the caffeine.

It was a relaxing autumn afternoon, with the weight of fear lifted off of them. At last, Frodo was safe, and with him on the mend all fear and worry of the Black Riders faded away. For the hobbits, it appeared that their dangerous journey was over, and they would soon be returning home after a delightful sojourn among the elves, with tales of pursuit and danger and meagre meals to horrify their listeners back in the Shire.

Emma knew better, but she kept silent. They were at peace and relaxed, and any suggestions of darker days ahead would distress them. Instead, she leaned back in her chair as the elderly Bilbo did, enjoying the bird songs and a soft cool breeze under the sun.

It was Bilbo who began:

"I sit beside the fire and think  
of all that I have seen  
of meadow-flowers and butterflies  
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer  
in autumns that there were,  
with morning mist and silver sun  
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think  
of how the world will be  
when winter comes without a spring  
that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things  
that I have never seen:  
in every wood in every spring  
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think  
of people long ago  
and people who will see a world  
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think  
of times there were before,  
I listen for returning feet  
and voices at the door."

Merry and Pippin were silent, aware of the age of Bilbo. The day's breeze seemed to be growing cooler, as if hearing Bilbo's words of winter. For a moment, Emma thought, racking her mind for a piece of poetry to respond with before reciting:

"'Tis the last rose of summer,  
Left blooming alone;  
All her lovely companions  
Are faded and gone;  
No flower of her kindred,  
No rosebud is nigh,  
To reflect back her blushes,  
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!  
To pine on the stem;  
Since the lovely are sleeping,  
Go, sleep thou with them.  
Thus kindly I scatter,  
Thy leaves o'er the bed,  
Where thy mates of the garden  
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,  
When friendships decay,  
And from Love's shining circle  
The gems drop away.  
When true hearts lie withered,  
And fond ones are flown,  
Oh! who would inhabit  
This bleak world alone?"

Although her tone in reciting the poem was soft and sad, as suited the words, Bilbo was delighted, and immediately insisted on a translation from her own language into Westron. It became a project for them that afternoon, translating her poems and setting them in a language, adjusting words and grammar as needed, with the other two hobbits giving their unwanted advice, in Bilbo's opinion. Gandalf found his way to them to announce that Frodo had woken, and pipes were broken out in celebration and to 'loosen the noggin for creativity', according to them. Emma wrinkled her nose at them and refused to join.

Finally, as the day wore on, Bilbo excused himself with the translated poem to work further on it, despite Emma's protests. They were left to idle in the gardens, Gandalf and the hobbits chatting about Frodo and the magnificent feast sure to be held that night, and Emma half-listening, eyes on the door.

Then, at a quiet moment, he arrived. Led by Sam, Frodo, pale but awake, joined them in the garden.

"Hurray!" Pippin leapt up in exicitment, "Here is our noble cousin! Make way for Frodo, Lord of the Ring!"

"Hush! Evil things do not come into this valley; but all the same we should not name them." Scolded Gandalf, smoking his pipe in the shadows, "The Lord of the Ring is not Frodo, but the master of the Dark Tower of Mordor, whose power is again stretching out over the world! We are sitting in a fortress. Outside it is getting dark."

"Gandalf has been saying many cheerful things like that. He thinks I need keeping in order," joked Pippin, "But it seems impossible, somehow, to feel gloomy or depressed in this place. I feel I could sing, if I knew the right song for the occasion."

"I bless the rains down in Africaaa…" Hummed Emma.

But hobbits being hobbits, the subject turned very fast to food, as poor Frodo had suffered for many days without a meal, not to mention having a fragment of a demonic sword trapped within his body.

Bells rang out, calling all to the great hall for a feast, and for all that he was injured and still a bit wobbly, Frodo set off with an incredible speed, alongside his cousins and Sam. Gandalf and Emma had to quicken their own pace in order to keep up.

In the hall, Frodo was placed on the dais with the great folk, to his surprise - he was seated beside Gloin, and they were quick to settle into conversation.

"You look as though a great weight has been lifted from your shoulders," smiled Gimli as she sat down, "We are all very relieved to hear of young Master Baggins' recovery."

Emma was touched as the others joined in, stating their happiness for his health, and quickly they raised a toast to his continued strength and sturdiness. Throughout the feast she found herself glancing up at the high table and smiling in relief every time she saw Frodo - the hobbits across the room were doing the same. The only one missing from this scene was Aragorn, who she had not seen since the morning.

After the meal, Elrond and Arwen rose, leading the way to the Hall of Fire. This part of the book Emma remembered, and she entered the hall with a small grin.

It didn't take long. Frodo locked eyes on a small figure towards the back of the hall, who Elrond quickly woke as the minstrels began their songs.

"Bilbo!" Frodo ran forward to embrace his beloved uncle.

"Hullo, Frodo my lad! So you have got here at last. I hoped you would manage it. Well, well!" Bilbo's face seemed younger in his delight, having his nephew with him at last. "So all this feasting is in your honour, I hear. I hope you enjoyed yourself?"

Emma and the hobbits, as well as Elrond, Arwen, and some of the others in the hall, watched the reunion with fondness. For those more aware of the darkness over taking Middle-earth, this was a welcome spot of hope and light.

"Why, sitting and thinking. I do a lot of that nowadays, and this is the best place to do it in, as a rule." Bilbo said in response to a question, "Wake up, indeed! Wake up! I was not asleep, Master Elrond. If you want to know, you have all come out from your feast too soon, and you have disturbed me-in the middle of making up a song. I was stuck over a line or two, and was thinking about them; but now I don't suppose I shall ever get them right. There will be such a deal of singing that the ideas will be driven clean out of my head. I shall have to get my friend the Dúnadan to help me. Where is he?"

Elrond laughed. "He shall be found, then you two shall go into a corner and finish your task, and we will hear it and judge it before we end our merrymaking."

As Bilbo, Frodo, and Sam drew close together, catching up on news from the Shire and on Bilbo's last journeys, Emma went to join Arwen and Brïen, sitting with other Elven ladies and chatting with a few dwarves who had interest in the jewel-coloured silks that the ladies were managing to embroider with in the dim light. Emma sat quietly with them with nothing to add, as she was neither a seamstress nor merchant-type, and knew very little Sindarin, but enjoying the conversation and the depth that it added to a world she only knew in so many words.

A sparkle in Arwen's eye as she looked towards the Baggins in the corner told Emma that Aragorn had returned. But Gimli had politely pulled her into a discussion on Cardolan's use of barrow burials and the scholar in her couldn't help but invest heavily into that discussion. She blended her own knowledge of barrows from her time, and what Aragorn had taught her about Cardolan since then. Still, she watched Arwen, seeing how she would keep  glancing over to her love with the slightest blush and smile. Were the dwarves not around, her fellow elves would no doubt be teasing her with little remorse.

"Eärendil was a mariner  
that tarried in Arvernien;  
he built a boat of timber felled  
in Nimbrethil to journey in;  
her sails he wove of silver fair,  
of silver were her lanterns made,  
her prow was fashioned like a swan,  
and light upon her banners laid…"

Bilbo's voice carried over the din, and other discussions quieted. The words were familiar - the same ones Aragorn had recited in the Prancing Pony. Happily Emma sat back and listened to the entirety of the poem, glad it was not one of her own that Bilbo was set on mangling.

His listeners applauded, and one in particular, whom he called Lindir, seemed intent to banter with him. As they did so, Aragorn came over to them, standing by Arwen, and they fell into conversation as naturally as breathing. With a heavy sigh, Emma stood and wished everyone a good night. Before she left, Aragorn called her over.

"We will have no lessons tomorrow morning, for a council meeting has been called," he told her, "You will be in attendance as my vassel and a ringbearer."

She would be at the council meeting? At the forming of the fellowship? Jay and Acacia would have her head. "I'll see you there, then," she agreed, and left the hall, heading off early to bed in preparation for a long day ahead.


	10. The Council of Elrond, or Emma is Emotionally Compromised

For all that she had left early to get some rest, it did not come. Emma tossed and turned for hours, trying desperately to get some shut-eye, but unable to. The nerves of what was to come in the morning were too much for her to settle.

Finally, just before dawn, she dressed and went for a walk. If she couldn't manage sleep, the fresh air would make her refreshed enough to handle the long meeting. The elves had given her another dress, this one a blue similar to Goldberry's, with elbow-length sleeves and with the same leaf pattern of the yellow dress. A closer inspection a few days before had shown repaired seams and hems - she wondered who had worn these dresses before. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she set out.

She went the opposite way from her usual dawn walks, towards the falls and the paths that led into Rivendell. In the dim grey light the golden trees around her looked silver, and the rushing river was black with white caps. There was a fine mist floating above the ground, and as she walked closer to the river, she found she was stepping on beautiful white flowers. She knelt to touch one lightly, finding it to be a type of heather with delicate white bells.

The sound of a horse's hooves trotting across the stone bridge made her sit up, fully alert, the memory of the Black Riders coming back startlingly quick. But the horse was too light, and with every step there was the jingling of bells, reassuring her of the elves. She stood to see who it was.

The elf on horseback was not familiar to her, but it was the bedraggled looking man walking beside him who caught her attention. Despite looking worse for wear, he carried himself with a distinct nobility, his chin high with pride, and his dark hair seeming to have been recently brushed, no doubt with the assistance of an elvish comb. If the timing and his looks did not tell her who he was, the horn hanging from his belt made it clear that this was no other than Boromir, son of Denethor, the Captain of the White Tower.

He crossed the bridge with the elf, head held high, and as he passed over the frosty grass through the mist, he looked up and he saw her. Emma thought her heart might stop. They both froze, staring at each other, until the elf Boromir was with nudged him forward, and Emma tore herself away and knelt down again, clutching her chest, nearly wheezing, and blushing bright red.

That was Boromir. _Boromir_. Her long time literary crush. And she couldn't even handle looking at him, so how was she supposed to survive the council meeting in a few hours? She was doomed. Completely and utterly doomed. Forget orcs or Black Riders or demonic eyeballs floating on top of towers, this is what would kill her: her brutal and unrepenting crush on a no-longer-fictional character.

After waiting long enough to be sure that he would be far away and likely already meeting with Elrond, Emma returned to the dining hall as the dawn was breaking. She sat on her own, as none of her friends had woken, or chosen to dine in the hall.

It was just when she had shoved an entire honey-glazed bun into her mouth when Boromir reappeared. Apparently Elrond had been done with him quickly, and he was sent to the dining hall. Emma turned away, desperately trying to chew through the bun and praying to the Almighty to take some pity and keep him away from her. To her stupid disappointment, he sat down elsewhere with his back to her.

A bell rang out, and if she remembered correctly it was the warning bell for the council. Emma got up quickly to run back to her room and fully dress, picking up some fruit to eat along the way, and with any luck, choke on and die.

In her room she switched into a dress less stained by the frost and misty damp, choosing to wear Goldberry's dress, as well as her circlet. She belted on her sword, thankful that this dress never wrinkled, and re-pinned on her large Cardolen brooch, having been using a smaller one lent to her by Gwendriel. After quickly giving her herself a look-over in the mirror, she rushed out to the council.

It was at the same place where she and the hobbits had spent their afternoon before, but this time it was grave elves and dwarves in the seats, rather than poetic halflings. She wasn't the first, but not all of the seats had been filled. Aragorn was sitting in the corner alone, and seemed to be napping, wearing his Ranger outfit again. Apparently her dressing up was unnecessary, but it sold her part at least. She chose to sit down near him, so that he could have his 'vassel' nearby when he inevitably and dramatically revealed himself as Isildur's heir.

More people filed in. Gloin and Gimli were already there, but many elves arrived who she did not know - some she recognized from around Rivendell, and others she did not - some seemed to come from far away, as they had different colouring or style of clothes. One she was quick to recognize - Legolas of the Woodland Realm, clad in rugged greens and browns that suited a hunter more than a prince.

Soon after Legolas came Boromir, walking in with Erestor, and Emma made sure to avoid eye contact with him. It did not help her that he chose to sit in a seat near her own.

Last to arrive were Gandalf, Frodo, and Bilbo. Frodo was called to Elrond's side as the others found seats.

"Here, my friends is the hobbit, Frodo, son of Drogo," Elrond presented him to all present, who may not have known who he was. "Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent."

Introductions then began. Gloin and Gimli were introduced to the council, as well as the Rivendell elves, including Glorfindel and Erestor, among other advisors. There was Galdor, an elf of the West, who was a messenger from the Grey Havens, and Legolas properly introduced.

"Here we also have Emma Smith of Harlindon, known among us to truly be Sipora, daughter of Dirhael, and heir to the lost realm of Cardolan."

She dipped her head politely, doing her utmost to maintain a neutral face. It was difficult to tell what bothered her more - the lie, the attention, or the mispronounciation of her name.

Last to be introduced was Boromir, and she did her best to pay dutiful attention without dying of her patheticness.

"Here is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered."

They did not start with the discussion of the ring. First came talk of various lands and recent happenings - Emma was even called upon to discuss the state of Cardolan and to pass on any messages from Tom Bombadil, to which she had none relevant to the council. Next came Gloin, to bring news from Dale and the Lonely Mountain.

"It is now many years ago," Gloin began in a rough, grumbling voice, "that a shadow of disquiet fell upon our people. Whence it came we did not at first perceive. Words began to be whispered in secret: it was said that we were hemmed in a narrow place, and that greater wealth and splendour would be found in a wider world. Some spoke of Moria: the mighty works of our fathers that are called in our own tongue Khazad-dûm; and they declared that now at last we had the power and numbers to return…"

At length he told them of the new mission to take back Moria, led by Balin, Ori, and Óin. It had been many years since they had anything from their kin, three decades, and after initial messages of success, they disappeared. If that hadn't been enough, a messenger had come to their gates, hailing from Mordor, seeking out hobbits, and where they dwelled, promising to return the last three great rings of the dwarves, in return for a certain thieving hobbit and the little ring he had stolen.

Unconciously Emma placed her hand over her pocket where the fourth dwarven ring was held in her pouch. She caught the eye of Elrond, who shook his head minutely.

"And so I have been sent at last by Dáin to warn Bilbo that he is sought by the Enemy, and to learn, if may be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings," concluded Gloin, "Also we crave the advice of Elrond. For the Shadow grows and draws nearer. We discover that messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale, and that he is afraid. We fear that he may yield. Already war is gathering on his eastern borders. If we make no answer, the Enemy may move Men of his rule to assail King Brand, and Dáin also."

"You have done well to come," agreed Lord Elrond, "You will hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than to resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You will learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.

"That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say. though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

At the moment, Emma regretted greatly the lack of international trade in Rivendell, because this was popcorn-worthy. As it was, she did her best to stay still and listen attentively to all the tales to be told. She wished she had though to bring a water bladder, or a bottle of wine.

"We begin with the forging of the Ring…" Elrond was watched with some horror and fascination as he told of the creation of the rings of power. It occured to Emma that many, if not all of the others at the council did not know the full story of how the rings came to be. The only one that truly knew was Lord Elrond.

And her.

The Silmarillion was playing out in her mind as she listened to the tale. Elrond told them of Celebrimbor and Annatar, who was secretly Sauron, creating the rings, blending their knowledges and making the rings to rule over all others, and the secret making of the One Ring.

He then traced its travels through Middle-earth: from the hand of Sauron to Isildur, during the battle where the Men of Numenor and the Elves united in battle against Sauron. When Elrond reminisced about the battle, Frodo spoke out in shock.

"You remember? I thought that the fall of Gil-galad was a long age ago."

"So it was indeed," agreed Elrond, "But my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories"

If that wasn't grim enough, he continued to tell of the battle, and how the leaders of the Free Peoples fell in battle, the sword Narsil being broken in two beneath Elendil, and his son taking up the broken pieces, slashing the Ring off of Sauron's hand. When the dark lord was defeated, Isildur claimed the Ring for himself.

"So that is what became of the Ring!" Boromir cried out in shock, "If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings indeed."

"Alas! Yes," said Elrond, "Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But few marked what Isildur did. He alone stood by his father in that last mortal contest; and by Gil-galad only Círdan stood, and I. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel."

Now the movie was in her head - Elrond and Isildur at Mount Doom, Elrond begging him to cast the Ring into the fires, but being refused. It was strange, Emma thought, listening to the story, having read it and seen it depicted so many times, yet here seeing it told in whole for the first time. So many among the council looked shaken, but she felt… nothing. This was earth-shattering news, but by her time it was only a long-ago story, with no reprecussions.

So the Lord of Rivendell continued on, telling them the tale of Isildur's loss, the rise of the southern kingdoms, and the fall of the northern ones. He glanced at Emma and Aragorn when he mentioned those, before carrying on.

"So it has been for many lives of men. But the Lords of Minas Tirith still fight on, defying our enemies, keeping the passage of the River from Argonath to the Sea. And now that part of the tale that I shall tell is drawn to its close. For in the days of Isildur the Ruling Ring passed out of all knowledge, and the Three were released from its dominion. But now in this latter day they are in peril once more, for to our sorrow the One has been found. Others shall speak of its finding, for in that I played small part."

The next to speak out was Boromir. He stood proudly and ready, though it was obvious to others that this was not his time to speak. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last."

Others, particularly among the elves, raised their eyebrows at the presumptuousness of this southerner, but they let him continue, telling them of how his people held the front line against the new rise of Mordor, how new forces were coming from the Eastern mountains, and had found allies from the Easterlings and Haradrim.

He fought against the new armies of Mordor in the ruins of Osgiliath - but of his company only four survived, the last bridge over the Anduin being destroyed.

Then he told them of a dream that had plagued himself and his brother, and he journeyed north to Imladris, to seek out the greatest of lore-masters, Lord Elrond, to gain understanding of the riddle spoken to them:

"Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."

It was clearly time for the dramatic unveiling, and Emma leaned aside as Aragorn strode forward. "And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," he said, casting his sword on the table, showing how it lay in two pieces, "Here is the Sword that was Broken!"

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" Boromir was in awe, having the sword and the heir revealed to him. Emma was quite sure she looked unimpressed the entire time.

"He is Aragorn son of Arathorn and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil." Announced Elrond, "He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk. As such, he is Sipora's liege lord."

As Frodo cried out and stood, Emma began cleaning her nails. There had been _a lot_  of talking, and she was beginning to wonder if a lunch break or bathroom break would be offered. Maybe she could go find Sam hidden away nearby and hang out with him for awhile.

"Bring out the Ring, Frodo!" Gandalf declared gravely, "The time has come. Hold it up, and then Boromir will understand the remainder of his riddle."

Everyone went silent, and Emma perked up a little. She had never actually had a good look at the Ring, and wanted to see if it would call to her.

"Behold Isildur's Bane!" Elrond spoke, showing Emma where Aragorn learned his flair for theatrics from.

Frodo held it up in his hand, and though it looked to be beautiful, Emma found herself disinterested. At this time, she guessed, the Ring and her had completely seperate goals. It didn't call to her, as her goal was to leave this time by heading west, rather than to the southeast. For now, she was safe.

"The Halfling!" Muttered Boromir beside her, "Is then the doom of Minas Tirith come at last? But why then should we seek a broken sword?"

Oh, the Fibonacci Sequence of questions. Boromir was a scholar in the making.

"The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith, but doom and great deeds are indeed at hand." Aragorn reminded him, "For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when all other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among us that it should be made again when the Ring, Isildur's Bane, was found. Now you have seen the sword that you have sought, what would you ask? Do you wish for the House of Elendil to return to the Land of Gondor?"

"I was not sent to beg any boon, but to seek only the meaning of a riddle," returned Boromir with an edge to his voice, "Yet we are hard pressed, and the Sword of Elendil would be a help beyond our hope - if such a thing could indeed return out of the shadows of the past."

His tone of voice told them what he thought of Aragorn's return. Despite her crush, Emma felt the need to stand up for her king, and she rose out of her chair to snap at Boromir, but was interrupted by Bilbo.

"All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:  
The crownless again shall be king.

"Not very good perhaps, but to the point - if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it." Huffing, Bilbo returned to his seat, and Emma grinned at him before returning to her own. He favoured her with a wink.

Aragorn smiled at the two of them before returning to Boromir. "For my part I forgive your doubt. Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. I have had a hard life and a long; and the leagues that lie between here and Gondor are a small part in the count of my journeys. I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhûn and Harad where the stars are strange."

He continued his speech, and now Emma felt as though she had to sit at attention, head held high as she watched Boromir take it all in. As wonderful as he was in the book, he was losing a little bit of that shiny gleen in reality - and her loyalties had already been bought when Aragorn cleaned her gross blisters in the woods.

"But my home, such as I have, is in the North," continued Aragorn, "For here the heirs of Valandil have ever dwelt in long line unbroken from father unto son for many generations. Our days have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper. And this I will say to you, Boromir, ere I end. Lonely men are we, Rangers of the wild, hunters - but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only.

"If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part. Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, do you say? The North would have known them little but for us. Fear would have destroyed them. But when dark things come from the houseless hills, or creep from sunless woods, they fly from us. What roads would any dare to tread, what safety would there be in quiet lands, or in the homes of simple men at night, if the Dúnedain were asleep, or were all gone into the grave?

"And yet less thanks have we than you. Travellers scowl at us, and countrymen give us scornful names. 'Strider' I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march of foes that would freeze his heart or lay his little town in ruin, if he were not guarded ceaselessly. Yet we would not have it otherwise. If simple folk are free from care and fear, simple they will be, and we must be secret to keep them so. That has been the task of my kindred, while the years have lengthened and the grass has grown.

"But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I will come to Minas Tirith."

Were these words spoken under different circumstances, Emma might have made many rude comments to emphasize how much Aragorn had just verbally kicked Boromir's ass - but she contented herself with a smirk at the man of Gondor and what could only be described as a telepathic high-five with Bilbo across the room.

"Isildur's Bane is found, you say," scoffed Boromir, "I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?"

"That shall be told." said Elrond.

"But not yet, I beg, Master!" Cried Bilbo, a hobbit after her heart, "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me." At least someone had the right idea in this room, and by the way Aragorn bit back a chuckle, Emma could tell her own brightened face at the suggestion of food was obvious.

But Elrond insisted and so, with apologies to those who had not known the true story, Bilbo began his tale. For all that he claimed to be hungry and determined to keep the tale brief, Bilbo carried on for the better part of an hour, describing his adventures with the dwarves, and his riddles in the dark with Gollum. He went on to tell how he used the ring through the Lonely Mountain to befuddle the dragon Smaug, then returned home with it to the Shire. Elrond stopped him before he could describe its parting from him, and passed the tale on to Frodo.

In mild despair, Emma listened as Frodo told, in brief, of his travels. She nodded in acknowledgement when he described how he met her in the House of Tom Bombadil, and how she joined them on their way to Rivendell and defended them from the pursuit of the Black Riders, while he carried the Ring. He was questioned all the while, and Emma as well, answering as best she could for the return of the wights to the barrow-downs, and their journey when Frodo began to weaken.

Next came Galdor, asking for more information regarding Gandalf and the other wizards, and Emma began to pray that someone would bring her some food quickly because it would be very unbecoming for her to faint away during the tales.

Gandalf's tale was obviously important exposition, but Emma gave up on trying to pay attention. Despite her best efforts, she found her eyes staring out over the gardens, trying her best to identify each plant and what they might be related to in her time.

Legolas broke in at one point, to announce the disappearence of Gollum, and at another point the Men and Gandalf got distracted speaking of horses, but eventually Gandalf's tale wound down, having given them his story and told them of the betrayal of Saruman the White.

"And that, Frodo, is the end of my account. May Elrond and the others forgive the length of it." Emma didn't, but she didn't think her opinion would matter too much, "But such a thing has not happened before, that Gandalf broke tryst and did not come when he promised. An account to the Ring-bearer of so strange an event was required, I think. Well, the tale is now told, from first to last. Here we all are, and here is the Ring. But we have not yet come any nearer to our purpose. What shall we do with it?"

Silence stretched around them, for no one presumed to have an answer. Instead, Elrond spoke up to summarize.

"This is grievous news concerning Saruman, for we trusted him and he is deep in all our counsels. It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill. But such falls and betrayals, alas, have happened before. Of the tales that we have heard this day the tale of Frodo was most strange to me. I have known few hobbits, save Bilbo here; and it seems to me that he is perhaps not so alone and singular as I had thought him. The world has changed much since I last was on the westward roads.

"The Barrow-wights we know by many names; and of the Old Forest many tales have been told: all that now remains is but an outlier of its northern march. Time was when a squirrel could go from tree to tree from what is now the Shire to Dunland west of Isengard. In those lands I journeyed once, and many things wild and strange I knew. But I had forgotten Bombadil, if indeed this is still the same that walked the woods and hills long ago, and even then was older than the old. That was not then his name. Iarwain Ben-adar we called him, oldest and fatherless. But many another name he has since been given by other folk: Forn by the Dwarves, Orald by Northern Men, and other names beside. He is a strange creature, but maybe I should have summoned him to our Council."

"He would not have come." Said Gandalf and Emma at the same time.

"Could we not still send messages to him and obtain his help? It seems that he has a power even over the Ring." Erestor suggested.

"No, I should not put it so," said Gandalf thoughtfully, "Say rather that the Ring has no power over him. He is his own master. But he cannot alter the Ring itself, nor break its power over others. And now he is withdrawn into a little land, within bounds that he has set, though none can see them, waiting perhaps for a change of days, and he will not step beyond them."

"But within those bounds nothing seems to dismay him," pressed Erestor, "Would he not take the Ring and keep it there, forever harmless?'

"No, not willingly. He might do so, if all the free folk of the world begged him, but he would not understand the need. And if he were given the Ring, he would soon forget it, or most likely throw it away. Such things have no hold on his mind. He would be a most unsafe guardian; and that alone is answer enough."

"But in any case," stepped in Glorfindel, "To send the Ring to him would only postpone the day of evil. He is far away. We could not now take it back to him, unguessed, unmarked by any spy. And even if we could, soon or late the Lord of the Rings would learn of its hiding place and would bend all his power towards it. Could that power be defied by Bombadil alone? I think not. I think that in the end, if all else is conquered, Bombadil will fall, Last as he was First; and then Night will come."

"Tom Bombadil was the First  
So he should be the Last  
When the last raindrop has fell  
When the last leaf touches grass.  
Hey, ho, Tom Bombadillo  
By water, by hill, by wood  
Should the darkness take the land  
Tom will be the Last who stood."

Emma chanted Tom Bombadil's own words sadly, and it put an end to that discussion, passing on the words of her first friend and guardian in Middle-earth.

They moved on to new debates, now discussing if the Ring should be cast into the deep sea - but it would only return one day, and to simply cast this horror onto another generation would be cruel. When they mentioned this, both Elrond and Gandalf looked towards Emma, but she merely pursed her lips - the decision would have to be made first before she revealed anything, and possibly she would not tell them at all if it seemed risky.

It continued, on and on. They must destroy it, yes, in the fires of Mordor, but could they not also wield as a weapon, suggested Boromir? Elrond and Gandalf shut him down. But he should fear not, for all the realms of Middle-earth, known and hidden, would rise up and fight the armies of Mordor with Gondor. What would be the fate of the other rings when the One is destroyed? Are there other rings yet to be found that Sauron could still take? Emma stayed as expressionless and still as she could when this question was asked.

"The road must be trod," declared Elrond, "but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere."

At this, a voice burst out. "Very well, very well, Master Elrond! Say no more! It is plain enough what you are pointing at." Bilbo sighed and tutted, but held himself high. "Bilbo the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it, or himself. I was very comfortable here, and getting on with my book. If you want to know, I am just writing an ending for it. I had thought of putting: and he lived happily ever afterwards to the end of his days. It is a good ending, and none the worse for having been used before. Now I shall have to alter that: it does not look like coming true; and anyway there will evidently have to be several more chapters, if I live to write them. It is a frightful nuisance. When ought I to start?"

He was, at that moment, the greatest hero that Emma had ever known. Frodo would be the Baggins that made it through history, the one who people knew the instant you said 'hobbit' - but this wizened halfling was courageous enough to do what was right in the bleakest of times.

Quickly he was talked down, reminded of his age and the growing power of the ring, but he persisted in wanting to know who would take the Ring.

"That seems to me what this Council has to decide," he said, "and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone, and Dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit, and I miss my meal at noon. Can't you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?"

A great silence fell, and Emma looked over them all. Elves, downcast, wondering if they were brave enough to face their deaths. Dwarves, unsure of whether their greed would overtake them. Men, with their own destinies to fulfill as the time of the elves passed. She looked to Frodo, and he looked her in the eye, and she felt her face fall as a determined light entered them.

"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way."

All of them looked up at him, and Emma never felt more like a proud and desperately worried parent than at that moment.

It was Elrond who first spoke. "If I understand aright all that I have heard, I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will. This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? But it is a heavy burden. So heavy that none could lay it on another. I do not lay it on you. But if you take it freely, I will say that your choice is right; and though all the mighty elf-friends of old, Hador, and Húrin, and Túrin, and Beren himself were assembled together your seat should be among them."

And then, bursting out from his hiding place behind a corner came Sam Gamgee, filled with determination and fretfulness. "But you won't send him off alone surely, Master?"

"No indeed!" Who could resist that puppy dog loyalty? Certainly not Lord Elrond. "You at least shall go with him. It is hardly possible to separate you from him, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not."

With some chuckles around the room, they adjurned the council. Emma bounded up and followed the hobbits out. She caught up to Frodo, touching his shoulder lightly to get his attention.

"I don't know if I can be by your side during this task," she said to him, hesitantly, "But I will support you and aid you in any way that I can."

A small smile played on his lips as he looked between her and Sam. "I would sooner have you than not, Miss Smith," he said.

"I'd rather it be us," Sam whispered to her, "I don't know who Master Elrond and Gandalf will send along, but between you and me we'll keep Master Frodo safe."

"Will you hurry up?" Snapped Bilbo impatiently, "The noon bell has rung and we've already missed second breakfast and elevensies.

They rushed after him, leaving the dark tidings of the council behind in favour of a meal, biding off the darkness for a moment more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought this was long to read, it was even longer to write


	11. The Captain of Gondor, or Emma Watches Boromir Take a Pickaxe to the Pedestal She Put Him On

After a filling lunch of squash stew (heavily salted by her), fresh breads, fruit, and admittedly a substantial amount of tea and elven wine, Emma decided to do some swordwork and practise some drills on her own. The time alone would let her process the council meeting.  
  
Having returned to her room and changed into her practice clothes, Emma went to the oak tree. It was a little embarrassing for her, working on her own during the afternoon. It reminded her of high school, when the weird edgy kid would practice with his katana behind the school during lunch.  
  
Nevertheless, she began. The drills were tiresome and repetitive, following steps forward and back, slashing to the right, stabbing to the front. The intention was to make the motions second nature, so if, or rather when, she was in a fight, there would be no thought necessary. However, that would take several months or years to achieve, so she would just do her best for now.  
  
She was in the midst of a new, more complicated move that Aragorn had shown her when a voice called out from behind her, "You should be gripping it from above."  
  
Startled, Emma spun around. There was Boromir, watching her from under the oak tree. He smiled at her and began to approach, making her lower the sword. However, he indicated to her to lift it again. When she did, he reached over and adjusted her grip. "This way, when your sword strikes against your opponent's, it won't be easily knocked away. Here," he unsheathed his sword, "Let me show you."  
  
He insisted on running the drill with her, their swords clashing together. At first he simply adjusted her form, but as she grew used to it he picked up the speed. It was nowhere near a real fight's speed, which she knew would be quick and dirty, but it got her used to the correct positioning of her hands and feet. Boromir was a good instructor - it was obvious he had trained others before.  
  
After half an hour or so of practice, they stopped to drink some water. Emma was sweating and feeling exhausted, but Boromir's warrior stamina meant that he looked just fine - not great for her self-esteem or her crush.  
  
As she sat and drank from her water bladder, Boromir sat beside her, pulling out his own.  
  
She waited. It was obvious that he had not sought her out just to help her with her swordwork, or because he thought she was pretty (which she did not feel at all in the moment). No doubt he wanted to speak to Aragorn's vassal, not Emma.  
  
"You are the heir to Cardolan," was where he started, "I, too, am the heir to my land. It is a great responsibility."  
  
Not her responsibility, not truely. "I have heard the white towers of Minas Tirith are truly beautiful to

behold."  
  
"Indeed. It is a great honour, for me to one day be Steward of Gondor, where my family has kept peace for the last thousand years. I have spent my life preparing for the day when I would be Steward."  
  
Emma sighed heavily, choosing not to respond to his provocations. Why couldn't he just be the great character from within the book and not ruin her ideals about him by being an actual person?  
  
"This Ranger," Boromir finally stopped his poor attempt at being subtle, "How long have you known him?"  
  
"Seems like my whole life." After all, she had known him through the books first.  
  
"If he becomes king, he will rule your realm as well," he pressed, "Are you truly willing to give up your right to rule? To some stranger from the North?"  
  
She turned to him fast, whipping her braid over her shoulder. "First of all," she held up a finger, "Cardolan is not Gondor. It is barren except for the dead, who haunt it in the night. Why would I want to be queen of the dead?  
  
"Second, Aragorn is kin… was kin to my father. He is my cousin. He has known of his claim to the land and been preparing for his future as the king long before I was even born, let alone before I knew I was heir to Cardolan - which I only learned recently. He is far better equipped to be a leader than I am."  
  
Taken aback by her sudden intensity, Boromir had sat and listened. She hadn't said much, but it had been enough by her standards. They sat quietly for a few moments, Emma looking into the distance and Boromir frowning and thinking on her words.  
  
At last he spoke. "And what would you have me do?" He said bitterly, "Am I to abandon my people, leave them in the care of a stranger?"  
  
Exasperated, Emma stood up and began to wrap up her sword. "You think he won't need people to help him in governing? Who know the way of people, the economics of the city, who among the nobles he can trust, and who he can't?" Hands on her hips, she shook her head at him, "Consider trying to get to know him first, before you judge him inadequate." With that she left, having spoken more than she had intended to, and making less gains on her swordsmanship than she had wanted.  
  
The rest of the day she spent in her room, cleaning and polishing her sword and her acquired jewelery, and figuring out how she would be managing her laundry down at the river the next day. Hopefully Gwendril, Brïen, and Arwen could show her how washing was done without the use of a machine.  
  
By dinner time she found herself very bored, and wishing that she hadn't ditched Boromir to sulk in her room. It was hard, having your fictional crush not live up to your expectations. As well, not being able to read any of the books around Rivendell was incredibly frustrating. Maybe she would look into finding the library she was sure Elrond had, and pester one of the scholars into giving her intensive Sindarin lessons.  
  
An apple flying through her window straight at her head caught her attention and she dodged, jumping up and going to look outside. There was Aragorn, a small bag in his hand, other one outstretched to catch the apple she tossed back down.  
  
"I go to scout with Elladan and Elrohir - we must know what happened to the Black Riders."  
  
"Of course," she answered, straightening her shoulders, "Any standing orders while you're away?"  
  
He grinned. "Keep practicing your swordwork - should you need someone to assist you, you will not lack for partners here. And be on your most dignified behaviour, as you are my vassal, and the son of Denethor would be our best ally in Gondor."  
  
Cheekily she saluted him, and then he was gone, wandering down the path towards the stables. He didn't need to know that Boromir and her had already crossed paths, and swords. Nor did he need to know that Boromir would never be their ally within Gondor, as he would die on the journey. That thought was instantly shoved aside, thrown into whatever pit she was keeping all her distressed and despairing feelings in for the last month.  
  
The hobbits were nowhere to be seen in the dining hall - Gandalf, too, was elsewhere. Glancing around from her seat, Emma saw Boromir sat with Erestor and some of the other high-ranking elves. He had cleaned up since the afternoon, and had been provided with new clothes, and the elves were being every bit as courteous to their new guest as they had been to her and the hobbits. Nevertheless, she noticed him glancing towards her repeatedly. Gimli picked up on their glances at each other.  
  
There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, distracting her from salting her vegetables. "Perhaps if the Ranger cannot reunite the northern and southern kingdoms, the heir of Cardolan and the next steward of Gondor can solve that issue?"  
  
The other dwarves grinned as her face went red - the quiet woman was rarely flustered. "That is _highly_ unlikely!" She sputtered, "There are - there are things. Reasons. That will never occur." She put her hand over the right side of her face, the side Boromir could see, so that if he looked now he wouldn't see she was as red as her hair as the dwarves laughed.  
  
Though he apologized for embarrassing her, it was obvious Gimli was enjoying himself at her expense, and Emma steered the conversation away from herself and asked Beli next to her what he thought of the possibility of building a small model flying machine - Leonardo da Vinci's, in fact. It was the perfect move, as it shifted their conversation to talk of new toys that the Dwarves of Erebor could create.  
  
She made sure to not look at Boromir again that evening.  
  
Instead of joining everyone in the Hall of Fire, she decided to wander towards the kitchen gardens, which she had spotted the other day while trying to sneak some food between the day's meals. In the evening, it was difficult to see much, but she still crept in, touching leaves here and there. She was delighted to see what looked like chard, which she had recognized from meals, and moved on down the rows. Cabbages, radishes, carrots - she murmured happily, both to herself and the plants as she gently touched their leaves, feeling as though she was at home, sneaking into the veg garden behind the house during the night, sneaking strawberries and peas while her mothers slept.  
  
Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and she touched them in some confusion as her breath began to hitch. It felt so real, as if she could just look up and see the old farmhouse right ahead. She rubbed at her eyes, keeping her head down, trying to keep herself at home for just a while longer.  
  
But there was a sound up the path, and Emma sucked in her breath. A group of elvish men were coming down the path, chatting idly. She stood quickly, holding her breath so they couldn't hear her sobs, and walked as normally as possible down the path that led closer to the rushing falls that could hide her crying.  
  
By the waterfall, she sat down, finding a hill that she could try to hide behind, and let the tears come. Soon, it was full on sobbing, leaving her gasping for breath as her chest ached, and she felt literally sick for her family. The emotions she had been smothering the whole time were bubbling up to the surface, no matter how hard she tried to press it back down. It overwhelmed her, how much she wanted to crawl into Mama's arms, as if she was six years old again, and hear Mum's soothing voice. Even to argue with Samuel or Sara, just so she could hear their voices. She buried her head in her hands as she cried and cried, until there was nothing left to cry, and still she sat, drawing in ragged breaths.  
  
Emma had no idea what time it was when she returned to her room, pulling off her clothes and almost desperately crawling into bed. All she knew was that sleep was an escape from the memories of her family.  
  
The sound of a 'thunk!' on the floor, followed by something bouncing along woke her from a thankfully dreamless sleep. Groggily, Emma dragged herself out of bed, staring at the apple on the floor in confusion - Aragorn never missed.  
  
Outside the window in the dawn light, looking every bit her fantasy, stood Boromir. He was dressed lightly in a loose shirt and tunic, and his travel-worn pants.  
  
"The Lady Undómiel told me in the Hall of Fire last night that this would be the best way to wake you," his grin was _damn_ _beautiful_ , even if he was annoyingly anti-monarchist, "She also suggested that I could work on your swordsmanship with you."  
  
One would think that having travelled through the night before he would be more tired, but the Captain of Gondor had plenty of energy in comparison to a coffee-less Emma. As they walked to the usual spot where she trained, she wondered if she stayed in Middle-earth long enough, she would gain their ungodly stamina. But then that thought was thrown away in hopes of preventing the same kind of upset she went through the night before.  
  
Boromir made her go over what she had learned from Aragorn, so she showed him the various drills Aragorn had taught her. Occasionally as she placed a foot or made a strike he would frown, commenting on the style differences of the north and the south, but overall he seemed satisfied. After the drills, he had her do a practice spar with him. At first, he had her lead with the strikes, trying to land a blow against him. He was good enough to be able to dodge her if she slipped past his defenses - not that she ever managed to. They switched after that, and she was pleased with her parries, even if she knew that he was holding back.  
  
They quit just before breakfast. Normally Aragorn would bring some kind of jerky (smoked fish after she refused to eat the pork and game) and some apples, but Boromir hadn't thought ahead. They walked in, quite sweaty and tired.  
  
They ended up joining the hobbits for breakfast, as the elves turned up their noses at the sweaty and rumpled Men. The hobbits, minus Bilbo, looked amused and were more willing to accept them at

their table.  
  
"The first time you choose to join us, and you don't even bathe first?" Bilbo sounded miffed.  
  
"They smell better than they did on the road!" Quipped Merry, and Emma stuck her tongue out, helping herself to some of his sliced fruit and cheese.

The hobbits and Emma began to tease each other, citing who smelled the worst on their journey, settling on Aragorn in absentia. Boromir laughed as he buttered a roll, and admitted that he had probably been worse than all of them on his own journey.

The conversation reminded Emma that she was to wash her clothes with Arwen and the others that day - she was not super excited for it.

After collecting up her dirty laundry in her room and swapping into one of the simple elven dresses and shift, she headed down to the river where Arwen had said she would meet her. The daughter of Elrond stood in the river in her shift, the hems soaked, as she carried a woven basket on her hip. She glanced up as Emma rather gracelessly made her way down the hill to the river.

She had remembered an old fanfic that had involved doing laundry with the elves, but she had half-hoped along the way that the story had gotten those facts wrong, and laundry was going to be an easier experience.

She was wrong.

The area of the river they went to was shallow but rapid, with large rocks that seemed to be placed in such a way to make it easier to slap their clothes against it. Other elven ladies were already laughing and chatting as they wrung their clothes and smacked them around, clad only in their light shifts. Numerous baskets were cast about on the shore, each with their own unique woven pattern.

Emma, however, did not have a basket. She had simply rolled up her clothes in her cloak and hauled them down. Arwen, at least, took pity on her and came over to help her mark where she could leave her clothes, and tried not to laugh as Emma struggled out of her dress, before clambering into the chilly autumn river.

It was _hard_ , wringing and whacking the clothes against the rocks. Most of her clothes were made to withstand the beating, but she refused to risk Goldberry's dress, instead begging Brïen to wash it so it didn't fall apart in her hands.

Around her, the elves chatted easily in their language, which Emma was only able to pick up a word or two from while she worked. Arwen first tried to kindly include her in the conversations, but she was so focused on trying to clean her clothes that eventually Arwen moved on to speak with her friends.

But eventually the river began to numb her feet and Emma dragged herself out of the water with wet and beaten clothes. A few others joined her, those with less clothes, but from the look of her basket, Arwen was going to be awhile. Hauling up her own clothes, including the dress Brïen took mercy on, Emma waved goodbye and headed up towards her rooms.

There was a beautiful blonde further up the path talking with Glorfindel, who turned to greet Emma. Legolas as well turned to greet the heir of Cardolan.

"Gi suilon, brethil Cardolan!" Legolas greeted her, "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn."

She turned to Glorfindel with a confused look, to which he smiled and took pity on her.

"Sipora does not speak Sindarin, Legolas," Glorfindel spoke in Westron for her benefit, "But you will find in her a most eager listener."

"I see!" Legolas smiled delightedly, "Then Lady Cardolan, may I borrow your ears?" His Westron was very accented, but proper enough, and Emma was happy to join him for a walk, which he pulled her along.

She had thought he might do the same as Boromir and press her for information on Aragorn, but instead he was happy to chat away at her with very little response on her part. When they walked near the paths that led into the woods surrounding Rivendell, after she dropped off and hung up her clothes, she mentioned that she knew little of the local trees, which led to her next grand adventure.

They stumbled into the Hall of Fire hours later, covered in dirt and branches and grinning like idiots. They found their way to the hobbits, who looked shocked.

"Goodness, are you ever going to be clean again?" Demanded Bilbo as waved her over, picking sticks off her dress.

"I hope not," Emma was utterly delighted, "We spent a wonderful afternoon learning the names of trees and plants and showing each other different winter shelters."

Legolas shook his head, freeing himself of some mud clumps and twigs. "I cannot believe that your people were taught to dig pits."

"I can't believe you think a winter shelter is a tree branch! There's so much exposure there!"

Their loud discussion of winter survival skills drew over some others, including Boromir and Elrond, to debate and discuss tactics from Mirkwood to Imladris to Gondor and supposedly the Men of Lindon. It didn't take long for the elves to swap into Sindarin, leaving Emma out. Boromir, too, stayed in the Sindarin discussion, so Emma sunk back into a chair next to Sam.

"Digging a hole seems reasonable to me," Pippin said tartly, "It's a good bit of hobbit-sense."

"Since when have you had any sense, Peregrin Took, hobbit or otherwise?" Snapped Bilbo, resulting in poor Pippin's cousins having a good laugh at his expense.

Emma enjoyed her evening with just the hobbits in the corner, quietly listening as she plucked bits of nature from her hair. They caught her up on their discussion from the night before, and how all the hobbits were determined to stay with Frodo throughout his journey to destroy the ring. With only Bilbo to contain them, and his hypocrisy as a Took could only go so far, Pippin's extravagent declarations made up for most of the discussion.

The peaceful atmosphere of the hall almost made up for the obvious disappearence of many. Aragorn was gone, as well as a number of other elves sent off to scout. More would leave in the days to come, to discover what was outside the quiet safety of Rivendell - to find where the darkness tread in the woods beyond.


	12. A Long Rest, or Emma Faces Her Demons, in Particular the Ones with Hooves

Time passed.

Boromir would not be the only one Emma took lessons from in November. As they days became colder and frost touched Rivendell, she would spend her afternoons curled up by a fire with Bilbo, learning the runes that made up Westron's written language. In secret, she made herself flashcards with ink and dried leaves, the same way she had learned Old Norse runes back in undergrad, and she learned quickly.

Not long after she learned to read Westron Arwen found her a Sindarin teacher among the scholars of Rivendell, Lindir. Emma remembered him from the night in the Hall of Fire, bantering with Bilbo, and they became friends quite quickly over poetry. Soon some of the other elves took it upon themselves to speak only Sindarin to her, including Brïen and Gwendril, and Legolas now took the time to explain different words to her when they took off on various wilderness excursions. To her surprise, Boromir also joined in, a Sindarin dialect being his native language - one of her first new words was 'magol', for sword.

By the mid-November, however, one of her skills was tested sorely.

The Hall of Fire was relatively quiet that night. Only a few musicians were playing in the corner, and they kept breaking off to workshop their song, leaving large gaps in the din.

Emma was arguing poetry with Bilbo, with Pippin reminding them regularly how boring it all was, especially since the other three young hobbits were discussing Elvish culture in Mirkwood with Legolas and Arwen, with occasional bitter comments by Gloin. Gimli politely remained silent. Gandalf was not present that evening, nor was Elrond - no doubt they were off plotting the quest that was to come.

But Emma's main concern beyond Bilbo's poor treatment of stanzas was Boromir's rather enthusiastic discussion with an elf who she knew by face but not name. The elf was the stable-master.

Her eyes narrowed, sensing danger.

Sure enough, Boromir came over to her, as giddy as a son of Denethor could be. "Emma, I have just spoken with Rochendor - he says that there is a horse in the stables whose sire descended from Felaróf, and has a most noble bearing and lightness of step. I should like to look upon a horse such as that."

Emma stared at him blankly. "Okay," she said politely, "Who's Felaróf?"

"The first of the Mearas, the steed who bore Eorl the Young in battle alongside Cirion, my ancestor and Steward of Gondor!"

She looked to Bilbo and Pippin for help, but they were both useless, as Bilbo's primary interest was stories of the First and Second Ages, and Pippin's knowledge of stories came from the old hobbit next to him. The lack of understanding on their faces made Boromir hesitate.

"But perhaps I assume too much," he spoke, somewhat stiffly, "The histories of the south may not have traveled so far north as the Shire and Lindon."

"If it has adventure in it, I should like to hear it!" Piped up Pippin, "If I have to listen to a single more word on rhyming couplets, I will scream."

And that's how those hobbits get to you, Emma thought to herself, watching Boromir melt. You think you've got a hardened heart against all things and then they just charm their way into your heart and you're ready to put down your life for them within a day.

Then she was reminded that Boromir would give his life for them in only a few months, and her whole body went cold.

She watched him tell the tale of Eorl the Young, first Lord of the Riddermark, and Cirion, Steward of Gondor, watching his face. The storytelling animated him, and he spoke passionately about his ancestors and the horses they rode, and to her great distress he became even more handsome in her eyes, despite poor lighting casting shadows over his face and the forty-odd years he had on him. The captain of Gondor was said to be much like another king whose name escaped her, fond of soldiering and warfare but never taking a wife. Tolkein's description of him as such made her think that there was no lady-love in Gondor either - were he ever to marry, it would be for duty to produce a son to be steward, not for love.

Were he ever to marry… As though he would survive the War of the Ring. Grimacing, Emma looked away into the dark corners of the room. She liked Boromir, the real Boromir, unfortunately. Reading the book she fallen for the loyal and determined captain whose honour was without question. Here, Boromir had been the man from the books, yet so much more - a man with charisma, and the ability to lead many. Reading about his love for his people had brought her to tears on one or two emotionally compromised occaisions but seeing the look in his eyes as he spoke them, and having the knowledge that he would never see the White Tower he so loved again made her want to throw up out of stress.

A bout of raucous laughter from the dwarves made her jump and she quickly glanced over to ensure that no one, particularly not Gimli, had caught her staring at Boromir. They were all turned away from her, luckily, and she only spotted one or two elves who gave her a sly smile, Arwen among them. She frowned at them before rising.

"Are you off to sleep, then?" Boromir looked up at her with some disappointment and Emma wanted to strangle her heart for its stupid little flutter.

"Some of us are already asleep," muttered Bilbo, who had been about as interested in the tale as Emma had, but didn't have an infatuation to keep him from drifting off.

As politely as she could, Emma excused herself, joking that if Boromir stayed up any longer she'd be the one throwing apples through his window.

Despite her threats, it was him that roused her in the morning, and even after two months of dawn risings Emma was still fairly groggy, but not enough to not notice that Boromir was leading her not to their usual practice area, but towards the stables instead. Her spidey senses tingled.

"Why are we visiting the horses?" She said, doing her best not to sound petulant.

Of course it was to see that fancy horse. They were greeted by the stablemaster Boromir had befriended the night before, and led to a horse that even Emma, with her wariness of the hooved devils, had to admit the beast was gorgeous. His mane glistened like newly fallen snow, nature untouched by man, and he stood at what Emma guessed from farm experience to be about fifteen hands high. Next to her Boromir bowed to the horse, overcome by its beauty, much as her cousins Peter and Alan did whenever they saw an unnecessarily expensive car. At least, in her opinion, the horse earned its awe by being formed of nature and not dreamed up by old men in ugly suits.

But then Boromir did something to alarm her.

"I know that we could never think to mount such a magnificent horse," he spoke to Rochendor, "But perhaps you know of two horses that Lady Cardolan and I may ride? Your Mearas has inspired me, and I believe we may be well served with the wind in our hair - do you not agree?" However, when Boromir would turn to look for Emma, he would find only empty space.

Embarassed as anything, Emma hid as best she could from him without arousing suspicion. She drifted from place to place and person to person throughout the day, horrified at her own immature behaviour but in too deep to do anything but continue on.

Boromir finally caught her at dinner, to the delight of the dwarves.

"I had a lovely ride this morning," he spoke mildly, as though he was simply catching her up on how his day had been and not secretly judging her for running away from the horses like a coward, "The wind came from the west, and brought with it a warmth I have not felt in some days. Rochendor found a bay stallion whose temperment fit mine most wonderously - I may have to bring him home to Gondor with me, and introduce him to my brother's mare Lilthanim."

"Glad to hear it." She raised her cup in salutation. It was terribly informal, compared to his elegant speech, but Beli was smirking next to her. Somehow her dining companions had become the number one supporters of a marital alliance between Gondor and Cardolan.

But it was at the Hall of Fire that her secret finally came to light.

It was Legolas, bounding over like a puppy who somehow figured it out and announced it to the whole entire hall. "It is true, then, that you cannot ride? There was no reason to run from the stables, as any elf would be glad to teach a youngling how to ride."

Emma looked up from her book with a scowl. "I know how to ride," she hissed at him, waving her hand to try and quiet him, "It's just… horses I don't like."

"How can you dislike horses?" He blatantly ignored her attempts to get him to lower his voice, "You could no more dislike a tree, or a stream!"

"I was thrown and dragged by the reins as a child," she explained grumpily, trying to return to her book, "Not terribly interested in reacquainting myself with those devils."

The elf shook his head at her foolishness. "Were you not using reins, you would not have been dragged. We elves are wiser in this." A few other elves nodded in agreement, being nosy as they were.

"Poncy brat…" She muttered to herself in English, curling up again with the book.

The next morning regrettably showed that Boromir had heard her discussion with Legolas. In fact, the two seemed to have partnered up, leading horses towards her tree in the dawn, which could have been a fanfiction fantasy if she hadn't wanted to murder them both.

At least they were both talking happily and enjoying each other's presence, considering they were about to be stuck with one another and seven other guys for the next thirteen or so weeks.

She gave them a proper glower as they neared. "There isn't a single reason for this."

"It's absurd to not know how to ride," Legolas spoke loftily, "You cannot expect to travel solely by foot across the realms."

"Done it once, do it again."

"It's impractical." Determined Boromir, "It is time to put aside your fears and ride with us."

Running was an option, but doing it twice would be behaviour not even she would tolerate from herself. Also there was no doubt Legolas would tackle her bitch ass into the ground.

Boromir help up the lead of one of the horses. "This mare is Niphredil, the most even tempered of the stables - she has not once thrown a rider."

Niphredil was a stunning dapple gray, if Emma was remembering correctly from Sara's horse-girl phase, with a star across her brow that looked like a dipping flower blossom. The horse regarded Emma with a steady black eye, and swallowing her fear both physically and emotionally, Emma reached out and gently stroked the mare's nose. Niphredil snorted gently and pressed her nose against Emma's hand.

"See," Boromir spoke softly, resting his hand on Emma's shoulder, "They are not to be feared."

And that was when Emma pitched over and blacked out on his boots.

\---

On the night of the second day of December, Emma placed nine candles before her. As she had collected them, she had done her best to keep her reasons for needing them to herself, so as not to alert anyone to her being a person with an unusual and outside religion that didn't start until about three hundred maybe years from now.

Hell, she was pretty sure she was a few thousand years off the actual first Chanukah.

She had made a vague attempt beforehand to calculate what the proper date of Chanukah in the year she was in, but given that she didn't know what the actual year was or how to calculate the Hebrew date without Google, so she gave up and used the dates from her modern time. Perhaps had she done more ancient history or archaeology courses she might have been able to make a more accurate guess based on climate or geography - as is, she failed.

"Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Chanukah…" She recited softly, "Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, she-asah nisim la’avoteinu bayamim hahem bazman hazeh… Baruch atah adonai elohenu melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiyimanu, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.

"And boom," She lit up the ninth candle, holding it to the first, "That's Chanukah, y'all."

Next up was the singing, but it would be fairly empty without Sam and Sara to obnoxiously compete with over who could be more off key or mispronounce the words most weirdly. Taking a small breath, she sang to herself near-silently.

"Hanerot halalu anachnu madlikin  
Al hanissim ve'al haniflaot  
Al hatshu-ot ve'al hamilchamot  
She-asita la'avoteynu  
Bayamim hahem, bazman hazeh  
Al yedey kohanecha hakdoshim.

Vechol shmonat yemey Chanukah  
Hanerot halalu kodesh hem,  
Ve-ein lanu reshut lehishtamesh bahem  
Ela lirotam bilvad  
Kedai lehodot leshimcha  
Al nissecha veal nifleotecha ve-al yeshuotecha."

Next was good old 'Rock of Ages', at home always accompanied by Mama's childhood pet rock for some stupid reason, before the music adjourned to eat some latkes and watch Prince of Egypt, pretending as if they were all good Jewish kids outside of the holidays too. Even Mom, proudly agnostic and former Church of England happily got in on it. But this year Emma was alone.

"Ma-oz Tzur Y’shu-a-ti Le-cha Na-eh L’sha-bei-ach  
Ti-kon Beit T’fi-la-ti V’sham To-da N’za-bei-ach  
L’eit Ta-chin Mat-bei-ach Mi-tzar Ha-mi-na-bei-ach  
Az Eg-mor B’shir Miz-mor Cha-nu-kat Ha-miz-bei-ach

Ra-ot Sav-ah Nafshi B’yagon Kochi Ka-leh  
Cha-yai Mei-re-ru V’koshi B’shi-bud Malchhut Egla  
U-v’yado Ha-g’dola Ho-tzi Et Ha-sgula  
Cheil Par-oh V’chol Zar-oh Yardu K’even Bim-tzula

Dvir Kodsho Hevi-ani V’gam Sham Lo Sha-kat-ti  
Uva Nogeis V’higlani Ki Zarim Avad-ti  
V’yein Ra-al Ma-sachti Kim-at She-a-varti  
Keitz Bavel Z’ru-bavel L’keitz Shiv-im No-shati

Krot Komat B’rosh Bi-keish A-gagi BenHamdatah  
V’ni-h’yata Lo L’fach U-lemokeish V’ga-a-vato Nishba-ta  
Rosh Y’mini Niseita V'oyeiv Shmo Machita  
Rov Banav V’kin-yanav Al Ha-eitz Ta-lita

Y’va-nim Nik-bi-tzu A-lai A-zai Bi-may Chash-ma-nim  
U’far-tzu Chomos Migda-lai V’tim-u Kol Ha-shma-nim  
U’mi-no-tar Kan-ka-nim Na-a-sa Neis La-sho-sha-nim  
B’nei Vi-nah Y’mei Sh’mo-nah Kav-u Shir U’ri-na-nim

Cha-sof Z’ro-a Kodshecha V’ka-reiv Keitz Ha-yeshu-ah  
N’kom Nikmat Ava-decha Mei-uma Har-sha-ah  
Ki Archah Ha-sha-ah V'ein Keitz Limei Ha-ra-ah  
D’chei Admon B’tzeil Tzalmon Ha-keim La-nu Ro-im Shiv-ah."

Desperatly lonely, Emma sat for at least a half hour more, watching the lines she had made in the candle. Once they were done and gone, she could head out to dinner.

It was on the sixth night, shortly after she finished her songs that there was a knock at the door. She stood quickly, glancing between her make-shift menorah and wondering if she should blow the candles out - but given that this was one of the few times of the year that she pretending to be a good Jew beyond being mostly kosher, and that she missed Rosh Hashanah due to time travel, she decided to risk it.

She had been fretting for nothing - it was only Elrond at the door. She allowed him in, bowing her head politely as he passed by. It had been some time since they last spoke together properly.

"I hope you do not mind my intrusion this evening," Lord Elrond spoke, looking at the candles with some interest, "I heard your singing. Is that your mothertongue?"

She shook her head with a smile. "In some ways. It's the language of my ancestors - but I fairly mangled it. It's Chanukah right now - the festival of lights, celebrating to retaking of our sacred temple. It's one of the most important holidays for mine and my Mama's people."

"Then may I wish you a peaceful celebration," he said politely, "But as the time for action draws near, I find myself in thought, not only about Frodo, the Ring, and the future of Middle-earth, but also about you, Miss Smith."

Emma dipped her head in acknowledgement, unsure of what she might say in response, but it did not seem that he needed any.

"You come from a future as distant to us as the First Age, which has all but disappeared - only the Elves now remember such a time. Were it left to Men, the names of Turgon and Finrod, the tales of Gondolin would be lost, only pieces of tales, scattered threads of memory.

"I must wonder, whether the quest in which Frodo must partake will be remembered, and if you may know something of the end."

Pursing her lips, Emma considered her answer for a moment. "I have heard tales… of a similar story. In a different language, with different names, but involving a ring of power," She thought of the operas by Wagner, "But I do not know how much truth is in them. There were certainly immortals, dwarves, and beings of small stature, that much is true."

He nodded thoughtfully. "May I enquire as to the ending?"

"You may not." Mostly because she'd never read more than the Wikipedia article of Das Rheingold with half a thought to an essay.

"Then I will simply take heart in your being - that even with the days of darkness before us, there is a future, no matter how long the recovery will be should we fail."

He turned to her sharply. "So now I must ask you this: will you go with Frodo? Will you join this fellowship of the Ring, and see that it is destroyed, to protect your future?"

"No."

She pushed back her hair and looked Lord Elrond in the eye, as unnerving as it was. "I cannot be one of the fellowship, as I too carry a ring," Emma lightly touched her hip, where the pouch with her Dwarven ring and the coin sat, "So no, I will not join the fellowship." Not to mention the danger - if she wanted to get home to her family safe and sound, she'd do best to avoid the war altogether.

Elrond nodded in understanding. "Very well. You are welcome to remain in Rivendell for as long as you choose."

Thanking him and bidding him good night, Emma watched Elrond gracefully exit her room. Although a part of her regretted not joining the fellowship, she knew she had made the right choice. Pippin was the necessary ninth walker, who with Merry would inspire the Ents to battle, and who would save Faramir.

Besides, even if she did go, she'd die in battle within five minutes, two months of sword lessons aside.

It was for the best, really.

Wasn't it?

\---

Whispers and rumours ran through Rivendell quickly as the time of the Fellowship's departure drew near. Frodo and Sam would be departing, as would be Gandalf. As the scouts returned from the wilds, new theories ran rampant. Some put forth Glorfindel as the representitive of the Elves, while others suggested Elladan and/or Elrohir. Were there actual bets going on, Emma could have made a killing with the odds on Legolas so low - at least until the Prince of Mirkwood was brought into a meeting with Elrond and Gandalf at the end of Emma's tiny Chanukah celebration.

For the Dwarves, Gimli was frontrunner, and so it was told to Emma and his comrades by the son of Gloin himself over dinner. As his companions wished him fortitude and strength in his travels, Emma congratulated him on not only representing the Dwarves, but also the gingers.

"So you do not join them, Miss Smith?" Asked Beli.

"It's for the best, I think," She said around a mouthful of squash, "I would just be in the way."

That made for five members of the fellowship - only four were left to be decided. Emma had wondered if Boromir had been approached by Elrond yet, but he made no mention of it during their fighting practice in the morning - he was now adding some falls and hits to the program, as well as their horse-walking (Emma would at least now hold Niphredil's reins and lead her around the grassy field - a vast improvement in her own opinion, and the tiniest baby step she could possibly take according to Legolas). One mid-December morning after breakfast, while Boromir, astride his horse, attempted to convince Emma to mount hers, they heard a call from the road.

"Aragorn!" She called out, waving excitedly. He grinned and strode towards them, pulling out his sword and pointing it towards her.

"In front of the horse?" Muttering fretfully, Emma passed her reins up to Boromir and unsheathed Beacenfyr.

Boromir grinned at them both, pulling the horses back. "Show him what the south is made of!"

Lunging, Aragorn swung out at her, Emma just barely putting her sword up in a block in time. There was hardly a chance to recover as he struck again, aiming up from below to force her into an awkward horizontal block - instead, Emma swung down on his sword as hard as possible to disarm him. It failed, and he moved back, but she stepped forward with a thrust at his chest.

Knocking her sword away, Aragorn grinned. "You've improved. I'd give you even chances against a slow goblin."

"Come now," cried out Boromir, "With her improvements, the Lady Cardolan could handle a maimed orc."

"You're both pissants," she growled as she blocked a thrust from Aragorn, taking a dramatic sniff, "And you smell bad."

"The wilds did not offer much in the way of bathing - especially not this time of year." Knocking aside her slash at his torso, he swung his leg around hers, sending her slamming into the ground.

She groaned as Boromir laughed above her. "Cheap shot!"

"But fair," Boromir clapped for them, grinning widely, "Did she not fair well? She is a determined learner."

"Aye," agreed Aragorn as he helped Emma up, "She's well enough for the journey."

"Oh, I said no to Lord Elrond."

Both men looked at her in shock as she shrugged, sheathing her sword and taking up Niphredil's reins. "I'll take her back to stable and do her rub-down. You two can discuss your coming journey."

There was no point in telling them why she refused. Maybe Aragorn - she could give him the same tale she told Elrond, and that some facts of story were there and she wasn't a part of it. There were nine walkers - to paraphrase an old fanfic she once read, 'NINE IS THE NUMBER! THOU SHALT NOT COUNT TO TEN!' And Pippin and Merry were absolutely necessary to the quest.

The fact that her first instinct was now to call it the quest rather than the plot did bother her a little.

Emma took her time getting back to the stables. She could sense that Niphredil was still happy to be out and about and while she wouldn't ride her, she wouldn't deny her the exercise.

They meandered around the outskirts of Rivendell, greeting those they met along the way. Emma waved to Halbarad as she passed, who responded with a guarded look but a polite nod. Most of the Rangers who had arrived of late were aware of her cover story, but Halbarad was one of the few who knew the truth, as Aragorn's close confident. They had spoken the night of her arrival, along with Gandalf, to confirm the story. With Halbarad to back her up when questioned, the other Rangers would save their doubts.

Though Emma tried to be polite when she met with the others, they tended to be distant - she may have been 'descended' from a Ranger, she was not one of them. Luckily Amdir was not around, the one whose inheiritance she had stolen. The awkwardness from that meeting would be enough to put her in the grave.

When they reached a field on the other side of Imladris, as far from Aragorn's potential interrogation, she let go of the reins, Niphredil happily trotting ahead to munch on dewey grass and scratch her head against tree trunks.

Emma sat down, spreading her skirts and cloak around her, not caring if they got damp. She drifted away in her own head, daydreaming about what it would be like to actually join the fellowship and journey with them. The idea of seeing Lothlórien and meeting Galadriel, of Fangorn, and Rohan! A culture based, if she was actually in the book as opposed to in the past (she still hadn't made up her mind, months in), on the Anglo-Saxons who she studied and wrote on. She might even see the White Tower of Gondor, radiant in the light of day. Even the idea of seeing the balrog would be exciting - she vaguely remembered something to with a debate about them having wings or not, but didn't care - what she was interested in was whether it would be adorable in a small version like at Miss Cam's Fanfiction University of Midde-earth.

But on the other hand, there would be battles aplenty that she would be unprepared for and likely to die in.

And she'd have to witness Boromir's death.

A huffing noise near by startled her out of her thoughts and she looked up to see Niphredil only a few feet away, staring at her with mischiveous eyes. Emma scrambled backwards.

"Good pony," she whispered hoarsely as Niphredil stepped forward, tossing her head forward. With a great deal of distrust, Emma reached out and gently rubbed the horse's nose, heart thrumming in her chest. Niphredil lipped her fingers.

She didn't pass out this time - Legolas would be pleased.

When they finally returned to the stables Emma found Niphredil's water bucket iced over and she kicked it, breaking up the ice and picking it out so Niphredil wouldn't stick her tongue on it before pulling it over and letting the horse have a drink. This part of horse stuff wasn't so bad, the taking care of it part - she was a farm girl at heart and horses were at least steadier and less anxious than ewes.

As she began brushing the mare, she noticed a slight movement in the reflection of the water. She turned to find Aragorn leaning up over the stall's door, his hand reaching out the horse, murmuring to her in Sindaran. From her limited skill in the elvish tongue, Emma heard "beauty" and "star".

"Niphredil is known for her steady temper - she is a good match for you." He spoke, lightly scratching the horse's nose, "Boromir says you have yet to ride her."

"It takes more than a steady horse to convince me to ride."

"You may need to, as we go south."

Rolling her eyes, Emma focused on Niphredil's flanks. "I have my reasons for refusing to join the fellowship, and you should know enough of my past to know why."

They both remained silent for a moment, Aragorn to mull over his own thoughts and Emma because it was her nature. The brushing she found soothing enough.

"Amdir is not the true heir of Cardolan," he finally said, softly, "Dirhael was his mother's cousin by marriage, but he is the closest in lineage.

"I am Chieftain of the Rangers of the North. I am the descendant of Isildur, heir to the Kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. But to the people of the White City, I am nothing but a wanderer, with claims to the throne and little but the words of elves and wizards to support them."

Understanding dawned in her. "You need an leader of the North and of the South to solidify your claims," she spoke aloud, "That's smart."

"Though I would not say as such to Boromir, the Stewards of Gondor have grown greedy. They believe themselves the true rulers of Gondor, and his father is too proud to accept an heir of Isildur."

They fell back into silence, but Emma's brain was working away. The hobbits managed to survive, and they had little training in the arts of warriors. She had survived the trek to Rivendell with less supplies and numbers. She had even done battle three times, technically, with the wights of the Barrow-downs and the Nazgûl.

Her real worry was the Mines of Moria.

Biting the inside of her lip, she thought over her choices while putting away the brush and her tack. So long as she survived the mines, she could choose to leave the fellowship at Lothlórien, or even in Rohan if she decided to go that far.

"Ugh, fine," Emma broke down, "I'll come with you all on the quest."

Aragorn grinned in triumph. "I will inform Lord Elrond and Gandalf that you have come around-"

"But!" She interrupted him, holding up a single finger, "I will not join the fellowship. I have my own goals, as the Lady of Cardolan, and…" She touched the pouch with the Dwarven ring, much as she had with Elrond not long ago, "I will go as your vassel, and swear no other vows."

"Then kneel, Sipora of Cardolan," Aragorn had taken on a noble and grave manner, "And pledge your fealty to me."

Emma blinked. "Oh, shit," she admitted, "I don't know how to do that. Uh…" She got down on one knee, feeling awkwardly like she was either going to propose or give a blow-job. "What next?"

"Give me your sword." She passed it up to him and Aragorn held it flat in his hands. "Now touch the hilt, and repeat these words after me:

'Here do I swear fealty and service to North, and to the Chieftain of the Dunedain," she recited after him, "To speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my chief release me, or death take me, or the world end.

"So say I," she paused uncertain of how to answer. Since coming here she had taken on so many new titles and names - she was Emma, but also Tzipporah; she was the daughter of Dirhael, a man she never knew, and Sipora to those who thought they knew her true name. She was the heir, the Lady of Cardolan, the Barrow-downs, a place of death and darkness and shadows. But as she pledged her fealty, she knew the only name she could give, "So say I, Emma Tzipporah, daughter of Smiths."

"And this do I hear," he responded, "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Chieftain of Dunedain, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

With that he handed back Beacenfyr, and she quickly slid it back into its sheath.

So that was that. She had officially signed on to the War of the Ring as vassal to the returning king, and lay claim to a title and land she had no business in claiming.

The dwarven ring warmed in her pouch, unfelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/kc1rugd7l6az22jibwm5ko7gm/playlist/73UxwzG2fnizmuvbW0PdrA?si=HwB8Rd41RCa5MPOxvM4ynQ) is my Spotify playlist for writing Emma


	13. A Winter Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a Valentines-inspired interlude before we return to the actual plot

Packing was hard. Mostly because Emma found that she couldn't fit her pillows into the bag she was given.

"You're a Dunedain now, Emma," Aragorn said from the door with Arwen, "We Rangers pack light, with few comforts to ease our nights."

"I am the Lady of Cardolan," she pointed out, "I deserve a few creature comforts. Maybe I can strap it to the back."

Arwen smiled. "You'll need to focus on your supplies. The clothes I have brought you will take up enough room as it is," she indicated the new travel clothes she had brought to the room, "Especially if you mean to take your dresses."

Emma shook her head, taking inventory. The olive dress that Goldberry and Tom had given her was set aside to be packed, along with a plain shift she had gotten from the Elven tailors - even with the tighter sleeves and higher neckline it was better than anything Emma had owned in her modern times. With just that dress it left more room for socks, underwear, and breast bands. Her practise gear had been washed and packed for layering on the road, and Aragorn had brought her some vital supplies - a blanket, a whetstone and cloth for her sword, a sewing kit and first aid kit, cooking supplies, and an extra water bladder, filled with alcohol to her surprise and delight. Some wool mittens were thrown into the bag as well, along with a shawl Emma had collected during her time in Rivendell.

But she was also admiring the clothes Arwen had brought her - the Elves were far more supplied than Tom Bombadil when it came to outfitting their guests for a long journey. Two thick linen shirts, a wool tunic in deep grey, and a brown leather vest would keep her warm up top, while black wool pants and some wool hose (at her request) would keep her toasty down below. They also had thick knee-high leather boots to see her through.

With her wool cloak and a pillow, she'd be set.

Finally, after watching her struggle to get shove the pillow into the bag, Aragorn snatched it away. "You'll need room for food supplies too. Leave the pillow."

Emma glanced desperately at Arwen for back-up but only got a smile. "Fine!" She threw up her hands, "I'll just use a hobbit or something."

Or Boromir, the part of her mind that was still infatuated suggested, but she batted the thought away. For all their training together and other hang outs, listening to poetry or chilling with the hobbits on the Hall of Fire, Emma had never gotten a feeling from him that he was romantically interested in her.

What did Tolkein say? That he was only interested in soldiering and not in taking a wife? Maybe that was just a euphemism for gay. Maybe Boromir was the Alexander the Great of Middle-earth, fighting battles and banging dudes.

Sighing and giving up on her packing for the time being, following the other two out. Though it was the winter solstice, there were no celebrations - the Elves didn't celebrate it and the near future was too grim for such a thing to the Rangers and the hobbits. Despite this, Emma still spotted Yule decorations of holly, but to her surprise no ivy or mistletoe.

Her searching looks caught Arwen's attention, and she questioned what Emma was looking for. When Emma mentioned her surprise at the holly, the Elf nodded.

"The holly has properties to protect against evil," Arwen told her, "And it is a symbol of the solstice to the Men and the hobbits. As such, we hung it to protect us in the coming days."

That would explain the lack of other plant decor. Poinsettas were also a no go - too tropical for this area.

Despite the apparent lack of celebration, when they all sat down to dinner that evening in the great hall, there was certainly merry-making among some. The Rangers sat together, Aragorn among them, drinking ale and eating choice game that others had brought in, and the hobbits at their table were getting fairly rowdy. Elrond looked on them indulgently from the high table, along with Arwen, Legolas, and Gloin. Frodo had left the upper table that evening for his comrades, and they had even collected Boromir, who had stated that the Men of Gondor also celebrated Yule.

"Do you celebrate the long night as well?" Gimli asked Emma after catching her watching the other groups.

She shook her head. "No, my people don't. Do the Dwarves?"

"What use do we have for long nights or days, deep in the mines? But the Men of Dale hold their Yuletide, and so we celebrate with them in good will."

Isn't that just my whole childhood, Emma thought, but did not mutter as she would have liked.

In the Hall of Fire after dinner, Emma watched as Merry and Pippin stole the show from Lindir and the other Elven poets and musicians, singing hobbit songs for Yule. Some occaisionally crossed over with ones known to the Rangers, who would then join in in a rousing chorus.

Boromir found her with Arwen, Gwendril, Brïen, and another friend of their's, the Elves chatting lightly about tapestry weaving while Emma followed along with the Sindarin as best she could - she was improving, in that she knew they were talking about tapestries.

"My ladies," he bowed on his approach, "Would you permit me to take the Lady Cardolan? A Yule ale awaits her, and the elder Baggins has wish to see her."

She only caught about four words outside of 'Cardolan' and 'Yule' but it was pretty obvious when Boromir nearly pulled her out of her chair and escorted her over to Bilbo, sitting with Sam, Gandalf, Aragorn, and Halbarad. Frodo had joined his cousins in a fourth song about Yule feasts and mushrooms.

"A toast, to our Haudhaew!" Bilbo raised his tankard high, clearly already a bit into the ale, "May she fly true and strong in the days to come!"

"Haudhaew?"

Aragorn grinned. "He finally settled on a name for you. It means 'barrow bird'."

"Lovely," she groaned, taking her drink from Halbarad.

"He was debating between that and Aewlach," the other Ranger told her, "It means 'fire bird'."

"You know what I really like?" Emma took a sip, "'Emma Tzipporah Smith'. Almost sounds like it could be my name."

"No, no, no!" Bilbo waved it off so vigorously that Sam reached out to steady him, "You're a princess of a lost kingdom - there's no romance to a flour-grinding smith."

In the end she just shrugged. She swore to Aragorn under her real name, and that was what truly mattered.

There were only four more days until they left, as they would be setting out at last light on the twenty-fifth of December, by her's and the hobbit's reckoning. As she sat in the hall, she took the time to seek out all those she had met. Glorfindel and Elrond, Arwen, Gwendril, Brïen, and Lindir, and others who had helped her during her stay, and who she would only see again if she survived.

Someone beside her told a joke, and Aragorn's hand slapping her shoulder as he laughed brought her back to their circle.

When she left, a little buzzed, a little sad, she roamed the hallways of Rivendell. She had missed the chance to see the broken sword before it was taken to be re-forged, but she still wanted to see if there were paintings as in the movies.

It took her some time - it had been awhile since she'd had more than a glass of watered down wine with dinner, and she'd had two tankards of ale - but she finally found the corridor where the sword had lain. To her great disappointment there were no paintings, and only a stone bench where the sword had remained.

"Did you not realize that the sword was being reforged?"

Emma spun around, losing her balance slightly and having to grab onto a bannister. Boromir watched her with some concern, reaching out as though to catch her.

"I did not," she informed him, "I wanted to see if the room would still be…" She trailed off, forgetting the necessary word in Westron, then giving up and switching to English, "Splendid."

"Splendid?" With a smile, Boromir came over and gently hooked his arm in hers, walking her to the exit, "I do not recognize the word, is it new?"

"Don't treat me like I'm drunk, Boromir, son of Denethor," frowned Emma, nevertheless leaning on his arm, "I am only tipsy. My balance will sort itself out soon."

He smiled patronisingly at her, earning a deeper scowl. "Even so, I would walk you safely to your room."

"Pissant," she muttered under her breath. They walked in silence together, Boromir helping her when she stumbled. The winter night air did little for her sobering up, as she shivered and took advantage of it to snuggle into Boromir's arm, given that she'd left her cloak in her room. He allowed it until they came across some elves drifting off to bed, then moved to create a respectable distance between them.

As they reached Emma's room, she smiled happily and reached out to touch the holly hung nearby. "Shit," she hissed as it pricked her.

"You have quite a love of plants," he grinned at her, "But you should be warier."

"I like holly, but it's super invasive back home," Emma sighed as she let it go, "Same with the other plant people like to hang at this time, mistletoe."

"Mistletoe?"

"The -" she stopped herself from saying 'gentiles', "The people who celebrated Yule where I'm from would hang mistletoe in doorways - any two people caught under it would have to kiss."

In the dim glow of the moonlight, Emma could have sworn she saw his eyes flicker to her lips and linger. But by morning she would be convinced it was just the light.

"Good night, Lady Cardolan," he bowed to her, suddenly stiff, "I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Captain of Gondor." She gave him an overexaggerated sweeping bow before drifting off to her bed.


	14. The Ring Goes South, or Emma Gets Her Hopes Up

Only four days after Yule, Emma stood in the dim light of dusk beside Sam and Bill the Pony. She had associated herself with Bill when asked if she was part of the fellowship by others - her and the pony would be part of the journey, but with their own duties beyond the One Ring.

"You don't need to fret over everything," she teased Sam as checked over the bags, "You've tied everything so tight we'll need to cut the knots to get them off."

"It's my duty to Mr. Frodo to make sure that we lose nothing," Sam replied hotly, his anxiety over the journey making him a bit snappish to her, "You should be making sure Strider is set for his journey."

"I tried, he's good." The sudden blast of a horn caused them to slap their hands over their ears.

From his place by the doorway to his home, Elrond frowned. "Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir, until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you."

"Maybe," replied Boromir, "But always I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night."

Irritated and with ringing ears, Emma sat down next to Aragorn. She didn't say anything, as she knew why his head was bowed and what was coming for him. Frodo, too, stood apart from the group as they all waited for Gandalf, with only his uncle beside him.

When Emma had gone to see Bilbo earlier and bid him good-bye, he had taken her hand and held it fast. "Take care of my nephew, Haudhaew," he said fiercely, "You have some Hobbit-sense about you, and between you and our Dunedain, you will keep him safe."

"What about Gandalf?" She had teased him, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Gandalf? If anything he will lead him deeper into danger. But perhaps we have too young Sam who will see him through."

In the gloom she could see the other elves who were there to watch them set out. Arwen was among them, but her eyes rested only on Aragorn, and Emma could hardly blame her. It would be months until they saw each other again, and she would not know if he'd survive the journey. Emma wished she could reassure them both and save them weeks of misery and fear, but there was little she could do.

Instead, she went through her own pack. There was only the simplest of gear - no soap or razors to leave traces of her as they traveled under cover of night, and especially no pillow. The closest things to luxuries that she had were her comb, her hair ties, amd hair pins.

Finally, just as Sam was beginning to mutter about rope, Gandalf and Elrond left the Last Homely House.

"This is my last word," Elrond spoke to the gathered travelers quietly, "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

Gimli scoffed, shaking his head. "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."

"Maybe," Elrond spoke, "But let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

"Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart." Retorted Gimli.

"Or break it," said Elrond with finality, "Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!"

They left in the growing darkness, with the Elves of Rivendell bidding them farewell as they passed. It was slow moving, their initial journey into the dark. They passed over the bridge to Rivendell, the one Emma had passed over asleep when they had first arrived in October - for the first time she saw the Last Homely Home from afar, its lights twinkling in the distance. The whole fellowship, along with Emma and Bill, paused, looking down at their last safe haven, before journeying deeper into the darkness.

They were all silent as they made their way in the dark, past the Ford of Bruinen where they had last seen the Black Riders, when they turned onto trails made by Elven trackers and Rangers.

Emma had to frown to herself. She knew that the main road was more dangerous now than it had been fifty, sixty years ago when Bilbo and the Dwarves travelled east to the Lonely Mountain, but it bothered her deeply. The title of 'Lady of Cardolan' was her's now, for however short a time before she went home, and provided she survived the journey she'd like to improve some things before she left. According to Aragorn, the lands of Cardolan went as far as Weathertop before becoming the kingdom of Rhudaur. The heir to Rhudaur, past Aragorn, was another Dunedain woman, Eraliel. The third kingdom of Arnor had been Arthedain, the heir of which, again past Aragorn who had the closest claim, was a cousin of his, Arohir. According to him, pending all of their survival, they would be governors, 'princes' (or princesses) to handle the regional issues and disruptions.

She fully intended to give up governorship of Cardolan to Amdir at the first opportunity.

The cold night gave in to dawn, and they found a hollow to sleep in. Winter snows still lay on the ground and they weren't able to light a fire for fear of being spotted by enemy scouts, so Emma found herself freezing, even with her barrow's cloak and layers and blankets - even though she sacrificed a blanket in order to make a pillow.

The sleeping arrangements the first day were a bit awkward. Aragorn, Gandalf and Boromir had little trouble finding a cozy solo spot, while Emma, the hobbits, and Gimli got as close as they could together to feed off each other's heat. They tried to exclude Emma at first as she was a woman and it was innappropriate but were swiftly told to get over themselves. Legolas perched himself in one of the trees hanging over-head as a look-out and part of the first watch.

The watch was split into five shifts and pairs. The first watch was Boromir and Legolas, and Emma was paired with Merry for the second. It felt like she had just dropped off to sleep before Legolas was shaking her awake to take over. Groggy and grumpy, Emma shifted herself over to the edge of the hollow. A cold breeze had started up and she shivered, but determined to keep busy she dug into her bag and pulled out a comb, working away at her hair. It wasn't too bad after only a night, but she didn't want a repeat of the flight to the ford. Afterwards, she cleaned and sharpened her sword, then continued to practice her swordsmanship.

The routine would give her some solace in the freezing days to come. Although they were lucky to not have any snow fall on them, it didn't stop them from being cold as they hiked through the wilderness. Emma enjoyed being cold, and even she thought it was too much - especially when she had to take a few moments to quickly wash herself with a cloth in the cold January rivers.

Then she would think of the attempt to cross the mountain pass and grimace.

She had been placed at the back of the Fellowship with Legolas as the rear guards while Aragorn and Gandalf guided them in front. Boromir was directly in front of her with Sam and Bill, and were they not walking in the dark and covered in cloaks Emma would have had a perfect booty view.

Not that she could even attempt to look with Legolas' keen elf eyes ready to catch her out at any moment.

There was one moment though, a week into their journey, when she and Merry were on the last watch. She had been brushing her hair, enjoying the warmth of a fire that Frodo and Gimli had risked making, when she looked up and saw Boromir, having just woken up, watching her as she combed out the knots. Her stomach did an awkward flip, especially when he smiled, only to realise he was now looking over her shoulder - she turned too late to stop Pippin from jumping on her and messing up her hair again, making her squawk in outrage.

As the days went on, even with the cheerless weather, there were always attempts to bring up the spirit of the group, whether it was Pippin attacking her hair, Gimli telling tales of barrel racing in Dale (which involved less horses and more running on water than what Emma was used to), or Sam making up little bits of poetry, then blushing like mad at the compliments they all gave him. Boromir and Aragorn began taking the evenings before they set out to practise sword-work with the hobbits - even Emma was called upon to help, being pitted against the hobbits as they learned the moves. Fighting against them as opposed to the lifelong warriors she usually faced was quite soothing to her ego.

Slowly they began to reach the Misty Mountains.

Two weeks into the journey, they found themselves amongst a grove of holly trees along a ridge. The sun had finally begun to come out, and the wind had dropped off - it was still brisk, but not so terrible as before.

"We have done well," said Gandalf, looking out with Frodo to the mountains now not far from them, "We have reached the borders of the country that Men call Hollin; many Elves lived here in happier days, when Eregion was its name. Five-and-forty leagues as the crow flies we have come, though many long miles further our feet have walked. The land and the weather will be milder now, but perhaps all the more dangerous."

"Dangerous or not, a real sunrise is mighty welcome." Frodo basked in the light, looking happier than he had in months.

While Gandalf explained the nuances of mountain ranges and how they, on occasion, did not just run straight back and forth to Pippin, Emma helped herself to a snack from her pack. Food was running light, as they could not spare time to hunt past Legolas sometimes spotting a rabbit and showing off his marksmanship, so she had been stingey on her eating. Her stomach was, to immense sadness, adapting and asking less for food. Hopefully after this leg of the journey was done and they reached Lothlorien and Rohan she could regain her appetite.

Sitting down for a few moments with Sam and Bill, she listened to Gimli and Gandalf provide exposition on the mountains ahead and the mines within them.

Finally, Gandalf declared his intention to let them stay both the day and night in their current spot and Emma gladly pulled off her boots and pack and laid her feet on top of the latter. There were no blisters this time - her boots fit well and she hadn't needed to cross any bogs.

They lit a fire and enjoyed a hot meal for once, a gruel similar to oatmeal but with a bit of whatever odds and ends happened to be in their packs. Emma contributed the last bit of an onion, and others had small potatoes growing eyes, scraps of meat and jerky, and some peas. It reminded her of meals in novels she'd read like Bloody Jack and Horatio Hornblower, proper British Navy slop.

While everyone else sat and rested, chatting amiably and enjoying a brief respite from the worry of travel, Aragorn was restless, leaving the company and finding his way above them, looking out over them and the mountains. As Emma watched him, she began to feel it - the sense of something wrong, even if she couldn't put her finger on it. The gut was rarely wrong.

"What is the matter, Strider?" Merry looked up at him curiously, "What are you looking for? Do you miss the East Wind?"

"No indeed," in a less grim time Aragorn may have smiled, "But I miss something. I have been in the country of Hollin in many seasons. No folk dwell here now, but many other creatures live here at all times, especially birds. Yet now all things but you are silent. I can feel it. There is no sound for miles about us, and your voices seem to make the ground echo. I do not understand it."

The back of Emma's neck tingled and she felt a shiver run up her spine. Her eyes shot up to the sky as she remembered the cause of the silence. The crows, the crebain, controlled by Sauron and Saruman. Had she time and was she not surrounded by those who would think her strange, she may have considered trying to woo them over - crows were clever and could be convinced to switch sides, had they more food to offer.

As Gandalf and Aragorn discussed the possibilities of what caused the birds to go silent, Emma grabbed her set of blankets and put herself under a holly bush, clearing away the pokey leaves where she would sleep.

"What, you can't think Strider and Gandalf are anything more than worrywarts, can you?" Pippin asked her from the fire.

Rolling up her pillow-blanket, Emma nodded. "As much as I'd like to pretend we are safe, I'd rather not take my chances."

Despite her attempts to sleep, it didn't come. The others, aside from Sam and Aragorn with the first watch, all curled up to rest, but she was too uneasy. She lay on her side, watching out from under the bush at Sam, Aragorn, and the sky.

It only took a moment - Emma heard Sam whisper, then suddenly Aragorn pulled him under a bush, and there was the sound of low-flying wings flapping above them. A single, awful croak came from the flock, and then they were gone.

Emma rolled out from under the tree as Aragorn went to wake Gandalf. She went straight to Sam. "Are you alright?"

"Never thought a bird could be a danger to anything other than a field," he whispered.

"Clearly you haven't met a magpie." The two of them smothered the fire as Gandalf and Aragorn quietly discussed their next move.

After that, she was too on edge to sleep again, spending her day walking in the woods around them, trying to forage some extra food to keep herself busy. As luck would have it, after clearing a bit of snow she found wild mustard and radish, and happily dug them up to add to their supplies. By the time she returned with frozen hands and a satisfied grin, the others were waking up.

She packed, listening to Pippin complain without much interest. If she was correct, the next danger would the wolves. Or the mountain. She couldn't remember which one came first, but either way she was not going to have a good time.

That night they took a clearer path than the ones before, and a full moon rose over them, lighting their way. Although it was beautiful, Emma could feel the shift in the air, as any farmer could, and counted the rings around the moon. There were three.

Three days, then, until they climbed Caradhras and the storm hit them.

Sure enough, the wind shifted in the morning as they settled in to sleep, blowing cold from the mountain range, enough fot Emma to decide to forgo the blanket-pillow for the extra layer. She watched the hobbits for a moment, trying to decide which one was roundest and thus ideal for a pillow. With the exception of Frodo, most of their weights had bounced back in Rivendell after their journey there from the Shire. Pippin, she decided, was the most plump.

Almost knowing her thoughts, he turned over onto his side, and Emma sulkily settled in for a pillowless sleep.

They gained on the mountains, a wary eye on the sky at all times for both spies and storm clouds. As they trekked up the base of the mountains, the sky began to blacken and Emma knew that the snow was coming. At one point she saw Gandalf and Aragorn close together at the front with Frodo straining in to hear their conversation. She knew this was when they were being cryptic about the Mines of Moria and laying the foreshadowing in the book.

When she woke up in the afternoon after their conversation, she watched them discuss it further at the edge of the clearing with narrowed eyes, so focused on them she almost didn't notice Merry, Pippin, and to her annoyance Legolas start a competition of throwing the last hard bits of breadcrust into her bowl. Gimli's laughter certainly helped her figure out what was happening. She was just dumping the bowl over Pippin (the slowest to get away from her wrath) when Gandalf returned.

"From signs that we have seen lately, I fear that the Redhorn Gate may be watched," Gandalf announced, "And also I have doubts of the weather that is coming up behind. Snow may come. We must go with all the speed that we can. Even so it will take us more than two marches before we reach the top of the pass. Dark will come early this evening. We must leave as soon as you can get ready."

"I will add a word of advice, if I may," said Boromir, "I was born under the shadow of the White Mountains and know something of journeys in the high places. We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death." His idea was for each of them to collect and carry a bundle of wood with them in case the cold was so brutal that they needed a fire

"And Bill could take a bit more, couldn't you lad?" Sam spoke up for the pony who was looking at him as though he didn't agree.

Gandalf agreed, but only to use it in absolute necessity.

Emma went into the woods with Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, and Sam to collect the firewood - the others stayed in their camp to pack. They were lucky that the weather had been dry of late, drier than Emma would have expected, and it was fast to collect good kindling and wood.

Although they spread out, occasionally they would spot each other through the trees. She discovered this when she felt something small and light smack her on the head, and heard Boromir's quiet laughter behind her. She spun around, flinging one of her sticks at him, only to miss by a wide margin and have another thing hit her from behind. Reaching back, she grabbed what she found to be a pinecone, and whipped around, actually landing a hit on Legolas' elbow, to her shock. Instantly she was attacked by a heavy rain of pinecones from the Elf.

Running back laughing, Emma slammed herself into Boromir's chest, not nearly strong enough to knock him back, but she dumped all of her wood onto his foot in vengeance. He winced, but wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her and spun back around the tree as more cones were flung at them.

"We must form an alliance of Men," he whispered to her, "Alone we may not face the might of this Elf, but together we can defeat him!"

Emma didn't really care too much about what he said because his arms were still around her and she hadn't been so warm and cozy in days, but she nodded anyway. To her disappointment it didn't last and he pushed her back to prepare their assault against Legolas. Boromir collected their firewood into a pile before grabbing all the pinecones he could. Emma, too, picked a few up, then pulled down her hood to let her flaming red braid catch Legolas' eyes and target her while Boromir attacked.

Just as she dashed out from the tree a pinecone smacked her right in the face. She flung two in quick succession, but Legolas dodged them with zero effort, and held up another dozen to fling them at her in a large-scale attack. Just as they hit the air she dived to the ground, landing in the dirt as Boromir let out a battle-cry and launched himself at Legolas, flinging out an armful of pinecones spread so far that Legolas was unable to dodge them, nor the Man who came tumbling down on him and took him down to the ground.

"…What are you all doing?"

Emma looked up to see Gimli, firewood in hand, staring at them all with a single bushy eyebrow raised. She glanced over at Boromir, then swung her leg around, knocking Gimli to the ground with the trick Aragorn had pulled on her.

"For Cardolan!" She cried out, pinecones raised over her head.

And thus began the First and Only Alliance of Dwarves and Elves against the Men of Middle-earth.

Sam found them a short while later, wood stacked on Bill's back, with Gimli and Legolas gloating over their success in defeating Boromir and Emma, now carrying all the firewood collected by the four.

-

That night they climbed Caradhras.

The road was steep and rocks had tumbled out of the mountain to block the path, and wind cut against their cheeks like razor blades. They hadn't made it anywhere near to the summit when the snow began falling, quickly and in large flakes that stuck to the ground and to them.

Emma looked at the narrow path they were on with some concern, as it was hardly enough for them to walk together on solid ground, let alone in the snow. Still, Gandalf and Aragorn pressed on in the front and so she pressed her lips together. She knew they would not make it far, but it was still annoying to even have to deal with for a short period of time.

At last Gandalf halted, but at the back she could not hear what he and Aragorn spoke of. Instead she moved herself forward to brush the snow off of the hobbits, Boromir joining in once he saw what she was doing.

"I do not like this path we have struck," he whispered to her. Even though she could hear him fine Emma waved him closer, enjoying the warmth of his breath on her cold face. He continued, "I fear this may not be a storm that any mountain may conjure."

Aragorn's reply to Gandalf carried over to them. "That I feared it too," he said in response to something they had missed, "But less than other things. I knew the risk of snow, though it seldom falls heavily so far south, save high up in the mountains. But we are not high yet; we are still far down, where the paths are usually open all the winter."

"I wonder if this is a contrivance of the Enemy," Boromir spoke up, "They say in my land that he can govern the storms in the Mountains of Shadow that stand upon the borders of Mordor. He has strange powers and many allies."

Gimli scowled up at the sky. "His arm has grown long indeed, if he can draw snow down from the North to trouble us here three hundred leagues away."

"His arm has grown long," said Gandalf.

"Slenderman," whispered Emma, feeling a sweeping wave of nostalgia for the internet.

The storm had faltered while they stood still, but as they went on it struck up again, the wind battering against them and flurries of snow being flung against them. They all began to slow as the snow deepened, even Boromir and Gimli, the most determined and familiar with heavy drifts. Emma did her best to keep the hobbits going, brushing the snow off them and covering them with her blanket, but it was no use as they slowed.

They all came to a stop of a sudden and a chill went down Emma's back that had little to do with the cold. Now that the crunch of feet in the snow had silenced, they heard the whispers and laughter on the wind, voices that had no discernible words yet brought on a sense of malice and hatred. Rumbling above them caused them to pull back against the cliffside as stones tumbled overhead, and if Emma hadn't watched so many movies where avalanches were caused by loud voices, she might've told the mountain to fuck off.

The fellowship discussed their options, but Emma was already preparing for their rest, pulling out her second blanket and, after clearing as much snow from the ground as she could with her feet and a stick, laid it out, ushering the hobbits onto it. Although she knew they were full-grown adults, she felt the need to shepard them, much like she had the freshman undergrads at her university when she was a TA. She cuddled up to Merry on the outside, with Aragorn next to Sam on the other end, and together they held a blanket over all their heads. Bill stood in front of the hobbits to protect them from the wind facing them, but it did little.

Next to her Emma felt Boromir slide in - she knew it was him by his size, and she peeked out from under the blanket to give him a little smile. He returned it as best he could, then slid his arm around her back and pulled in as close as he could. If her blood hadn't devoted itself to the cause of keeping her extremities functioning, she might've blushed.

As the snow gathered on top of them, Emma felt a something droop onto her shoulder. She first thought it was snow, then glanced over to see Merry drifting into sleep.

"Merry!" She hissed, using her shoulder to shake him awake as best she could. She drove her elbow into Boromir's side, "The hobbits! We're losing them to the cold!"

Boromir leapt up, and pulled the blanket off their heads, shaking Frodo awake as Aragorn grabbed Sam and Emma reached past Merry to Pippin. "This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf! It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads. We must do something to save ourselves."

Gandalf reached into his bag and pulled out a flask, passing it to Boromir. "Give them this. Just a mouthful each - for all of us. It is very precious. It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!"

Everyone took a small mouthfull, and when it was Emma's turn she found it to be light and delicious, like a mead she had tried at a Medieval History Conference years ago, with all the sweetness of honey and flowers but none of the sting of alcohol. It warmed her and gave her more energy, much as it did to the others, and she almost chugged it.

"What do you say to fire?" Asked Boromir suddenly, "The choice seems near now between fire and death, Gandalf. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriendly eyes when the snow has covered us, but that will not help us."

"You may make a fire, if you can," the wizard agreed, "If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no." But even though they all tried, they could not get the fire to start in the cold and damp snow. Emma got as close as anyone could, but even her sole talent of starting fires failed her, causing her to create no more than a few sparks. Finally Gandalf reached in, grabbing a stick and saying something in a language Emma did not know while touching it with his staff. There was a burst of blue and green flame, and a fire was at last burning.

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them," He sighed, "I have written Gandalf is here in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin."

Not that anyone cared with the least bit of heat. Emma squished herself between Gimli and Legolas (muttering "Make room for Jesus" as she pushed them apart) and held up her hands to the fire. Sam even pulled Bill the Pony into their fire circle to keep him warm.

The company stood quietly, waiting for dawn or a break in the storm, whichever came first. Looking at everyone's anxious faces and fears, Emma did what she thought any figure in a Tolkein story would do when the nights were long and dark.

She sang.

"Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya," she began, her voice quiet and wavering, "Kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya, kumbaya my Lord, kumbaya, oh Lord, kumbaya

"Someone's singing Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's singing Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's singing Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbayah

"Someone's laughing, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's laughing, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's laughing, Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbaya

"Someone's crying, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's crying, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's crying, Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbaya

"Someone's praying, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's praying, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's praying, Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbaya

"Someone's sleeping, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's sleeping, Lord, kumbaya  
Someone's sleeping, Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbaya  
Oh Lord, kumbaya!"

The words were in English, but simple enough that the others picked up on the 'kumbaya' and joined in. It had been years since she'd last sang it, at a daycamp when she was just a kid, but it was easy and always reminded her of campfires and warm summer nights. Hopefully, even with her meagre singing, that feeling would pass on to the others.

The last bit of firewood was put on, and Aragorn looked up to the sky. "The night is getting old. The dawn is not far off."

"If any dawn can pierce these clouds," said Gimli.

"Don't be so grim," Emma nudged him gently.

"The snow is growing less and the wind is quieter." Boromir pointed out, looking into the black void overhead.

As the dawn finally lit the clouds, they considered their retreat from the mountain. The snow was at least four feet, coming onto five in some spots, and Gandalf and Legolas were arguing about melting snow and finding suns when Boromir volunteered himself and Aragorn to clear a path.

As they made their way forward, Legolas grinned at Gandalf. "I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf or over snow - an Elf!" He suddenly leapt up and onto the snow, not making a dent in the least, "Farewell! I go to find the Sun!" He ran off, passing by the Men with a little wave and going on further.

"What a poncy little bitch." Emma said in her own language, and Gandalf nodded emphatically, understanding her tone if not her words.

While they waited, Emma snuck into the other packs, pulling out more blankets to wrap up the hobbits, especially their feet. She shushed their protests about the feet - Frodo would lose a finger by the end of the journey, but no one would lose a toe if she had anything to say about it.

After an hour of waiting with little to do but watch the threatening clouds lower once again upon them, Legolas returned, Boromir and Aragorn coming around the corner at the same time.

"Well," Legolas called out as he came up, "I have not brought the Sun. She is walking in the blue fields of the South, and a little wreath of snow on this Redhorn hillock troubles her not at all. But I have brought back a gleam of good hope for those who are doomed to go on feet. There is the greatest wind-drift of all just beyond the turn, and there our Strong Men were almost buried. They despaired, until I returned and told them that the drift was little wider than a wall. And on the other side the snow suddenly grows less, while further down it is no more than a white coverlet to cool a hobbit's toes.'"

"Ponssi," Gandalf muttered in very accented in English, to Emma's pure delight.

"It was no ordinary storm. It is the ill will of Caradhras," growled Gimli, "He does not love Elves and Dwarves, and that drift was laid to cut off our escape.'

"But happily your Caradhras has forgotten that you have Men with you," Boromir arrived, breathing heavily but clearly in good spirits, "And doughty Men too, if I may say it; though lesser men with spades might have served you better. Still, we have thrust a lane through the drift; and for that all here may be grateful who cannot run as light as Elves."

"But how are we to get down there, even if you have cut through the drift?" Pippin asked for all the small ones among them.

"Have hope!" Grinned Boromir, "I am weary, but I still have some strength left, and Aragorn too. We will bear the little folk. The others no doubt will make shift to tread the path behind us. Come, Master Peregrin! I will begin with you."

He hauled up Merry and carried him into their little passage, and Aragorn collected Merry. Inspired by the other Men, Emma turned to Frodo with a gleam in her eye, which he very well understood.

"Now, Miss Smith," he warned her, backing up against the wall, "I have never been a small hobbit, and I dare to say you are no Ranger of the North, nor warrior of Gondor!"

"Oh, but Mr. Baggins, I am a farmgirl." Bending down, she swung her arms up around his shoulder and legs, then hoisted him onto her shoulders as she would a lamb, marvelling at how little he weighed - at most sixty or so pounds. She made her way down the path with him laughing and protesting the whole time, but she managed the whole way through, only stopping to let Aragorn and Boromir by on their way to get the others. At the end of the path, where the snow was light and hardly more than an inch or two, Emma plopped him down mext to Merry, and they all waited for the others.

Just as the last of their company came down the pass, the mountain groaned and more rocks came tumbling down behind them.

"Enough, enough! We are departing as quickly as we may!" Gimli shouted at the mountain with the feelings of everyone around him.

They stumbled down the mountain until they reached the base, and Aragorn cast his eyes over the edge of the pathway. "The birds again!"

Emma looked over to see the swarms of crebain beneath them, and she stuck out her middle finger at them, as if they could somehow transfer that image back to Saruman like a security camera.

"That cannot be helped now," sighed Gandalf, "Whether they are good or evil, or have nothing to do with us at all, we must go down at once. Not even on the knees of Caradhras will we wait for another night-fall!"

They turned back one last time to Caradhras, and Emma spat on the ground, saying her farewell to the brutal pass.


	15. A Journey in the Dark Part I, or Emma's Body Hits the (dun dun) FLOOOOOR

Next came wolves, by Emma's reckoning.

It wasn't bad enough, the descent from Caradhras, but insult had to be added to injury - or perhaps it would be the other way around. At the base of the mountain, Gandalf gave them more of the miruvor and they began their discussion of alternative routes, whether they had to find a new path or return to Rivendell. Emma knew what would come of the debate, and so did not involve herself, until a vote was called - who would follow Gandalf through the Mines of Moria if he led them there?

"I will," Gimli declared, a light in his eyes at the thought of finding his lost people.

"I will," Aragorn spoke grimly, "You followed my lead almost to disaster in the snow, and have said no word of blame. I will follow your lead now - if this last warning does not move you. It is not of the Ring, nor of us others that I am thinking now, but of you, Gandalf. And I say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware! "

At this point Emma had chime in. "I know not what lies in Moria," she said, like a liar, "But I follow my lord Aragorn, wherever we may go."

"I will not go," Boromir dissented, "Not unless the vote of the whole company is against me. What do Legolas and the little folk say? The Ring-bearer's voice surely should be heard?"

"I do not wish to go to Moria," said Legolas, agreeing with Boromir.

The Big Folk settling four to two, they turned to the hobbits.

They all looked to Frodo, who thought on it for a moment. "I do not wish to go, but neither do I wish to refuse the advice of Gandalf," he spoke finally, "I beg that there should be no vote, until we have slept on it. Gandalf will get votes easier in the light of the morning than in this cold gloom. How the wind howls!"

In the silence following his suggestion, they listened to the wind in the night. There was indeed howling, but in all her years of caring for sheep and her family's farm, Emma knew it was no wind.

"How the wind howls!" Aragorn leapt to his feet, "It is howling with wolf-voices. The Wargs have come west of the Mountains!"

"Need we wait until morning then?" said Gandalf, standing and brushing off his robes, "It is as I said. The hunt is up! Even if we live to see the dawn, who now will wish to journey south by night with the wild wolves on his trail?"

"How far is Moria?" asked Boromir.

"There was a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs."

'"Then let us start as soon as it is light tomorrow, if we can," Boromir agreed at last, "The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears."

"True!" Aragorn pulled Anduril part way from its sheath, "But where the warg howls, there also the orc prowls."

"You two have the grimmest rhymes," Emma sighed as she pulled her hood closer around her ears.

They hiked up a small defendable hill, where Emma started a fire, as they no longer were secret. She couldn't really grasp the idea of threatening wolves. European wolves were different and more deadly than North American, she knew that much - they were far more likely to attack humans, while the ones she had grown up knowing were afraid of people. To her, they were just big shy dogs, even knowing that they were currently hunting her and the others down to kill them. She didn't think she could kill one, even in defense.

As they sat around the fire, the howling surrounded them. Glancing back into the darkness, she spotted many shadowy figures coming up towards them, their eyes glimmering in the fire-light. One was noticibly larger than the others, and it broke away from the others in the circle to approach with a threatening howl.

"Oh, a big boy," Emma whispered instinctively, scooching closer to the hobbits. Merry and Pippin had pulled out their swords to defend Frodo, but Gandalf strode forward, crying out.

"'Listen, Hound of Sauron! Gandalf is here. Fly, if you value your foul skin! I will shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring."

The wolf, unbothered by such threats for he was a dog and people words meant nothing, leapt towards the wizard. The was a sharp twang and suddenly an arrow was sticking out of its throat, and it collapsed to the ground. Emma let out a small cry, covering her own mouth, as Legolas lowered his bow. The eyes around them vanished.

Frodo pulled Emma over to him. "Are you alright Emma?"

"Totally fine," she tried to recover herself, "Yeah, super cool, just saw a dog die, but no, I'm fine."

"That was no mere dog, though," said Merry darkly, "No more was it a simple wolf. I'd say that was one of them * _wargs_ * Strider was warning us about."

"They're all puppies in my eyes," Emma sighed, sitting again by the fire.

They slept on and off that night, trying to regain their strength after the attempt on Caradhras, but deep in the night they were awoken by sudden howling and cries.

"Fling fuel on the fire! Draw your blades, and stand back to back!" Cried out Gandalf, wielding his staff to strike a warg that had made for him.

Emma grabbed a burning piece of wood and flung it at the nearest warg before unsheathing Beacenfyr and striking out. Her first swing missed the warg, and she pulled back her arm in time as it snapped at her, and she swung her arm back, slicing into its front haunches. It let out a whimpering cry and Emma froze instinctively, opening her mouth to apologize as if she had stepped on its tail.

Another warg took advantage of her pause and threw her to the ground, standing over her snarling. Beacenfyr flew out of her hand and landed a few feet away. The warg let out a howl of triumph as she struggled to reach for it, cursing up a storm. Behind her Emma heard a cry of "Legolas! Hauedhaew!", and two arrows stuck themselves from the warg's haunch and eyes - Emma kicked it off of her and rolled over to her sword, grabbing it by the hilt and swinging it back towards the warg, only to hit naught but thin air.

More words were called out behind her, and fire burst from the treetops in a blinding light, and all the wargs fled.

Emma pushed herself up off the ground, groaning as her back protested. The warg had hit her a lot harder than Aragorn or Boromir ever had. A hand grasped her by the elbow and pulled her up.

"What was your first mistake?" Aragorn asked her, not letting go of her arm. She had sudden flashbacks to him dragging her through the dark at Weathertop, but at least this time his tone was friendlier.

"Uh, freezing up? Not watching my back? Letting go of my sword?" She shrugged helplessly, "It was five seconds and I made a lot of mistakes really fast."

"Thinking they were puppies," Merry volunteered as an option.

"Not helpful!" She hissed back as Aragorn shook his head in disappointment.

When morning came, there was no sign of the wargs or the battle, aside from charred trees, scattered arrows, and the bruises blooming on Emma's back.

"It is as I feared," said Gandalf, "These were no ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness. Let us eat quickly and go!"

"And what would you have done were they ordinary wolves, Emma?" Asked Pippin, joining in on his cousin's bullying of her, "Given them a little scratch, offered up some chicken?"

"Absolutely," she nodded, playing along to take the fun out of it for them, "Befriend one, name it Stormbringer, live out my childhood dreams of owning the biggest puppy dog around."

After finishing their breakfast and packing up, they looked to Gandalf for his guidance, as they now took his path.

"We must reach the doors before sunset," the wizard declared, "Or I fear we shall not reach them at all. It is not far, but our path may be winding, for here Aragorn cannot guide us; he has seldom walked in this country, and only once have I been under the west wall of Moria, and that was long ago. There it lies," he pointed to a series of cliff faces in the distance, "When we left the pass I led you southwards, and not back to our starting point, as some of you may have noticed," Emma absolutely did not, "It is well that I did so, for now we have several miles less to cross, and haste is needed. Let us go!"

"I do not know which to hope," said Boromir, hoisting his pack over his shoulder, "that Gandalf will find what he seeks, or that coming to the cliff we shall find the gates lost for ever. All choices seem ill, and to be caught between wolves and the wall the likeliest chance. Lead on!"

Emma rolled his eyes at him. "I hope I don't get another smack down from a warg." She told him.

But at the very back of her mind, she knew what she truly wanted. Her secret wish that she could never reveal to the others, who would neither understand nor care. They'd either leave her where she was as a crazy woman or kill her to spare themselves the baggage.

Emma wanted to see a Balrog.

The massive, gigantic, flaming demon had entranced her as a child, watching the movies for the first time, and subsequently reading the Fanfiction University of Middle-earth with the mini-Balrogs birthed from misspellings of Lord of the Ring character's names. The adorable, demonic, awful flaming beasts - technically she had adopted one named 'Boromior', and she was very proud of it.

She almost had to stop herself from skipping to Moria - luckily she was too sore to do much beyond trudge.

It took longer to reach the cliffs than they had thought, as neither Gandalf nor Aragorn had been in this area for many, many years. Their path was winding as Gandalf attempted to find the stream that was next to the road to Moria, Gimli by his side in his eagerness to reach the domain of his kindred.

It was Gimli who found the stream, nearly dried up entirely, and the ruined road beside it. They rushed along the road, as tired as they were, taking only a small rest after noon to eat.

"I can only hope that this is the last such meal we take," said Gimli as he ate some nearly petrified sausages, "And that in the halls of Moria we will be greeted with a feast to envy that of the tables of Elrond."

Well _she_  wouldn't be the one to burst his bubble, Emma decided as she popped a slice of raw wild radish into her mouth.

The sun was touching the very peaks of the mountains when they at last reached a place that jogged Gandalf's memory, a great cliff with only a trickle of water coming down to suggest that it was once a waterfall.

"Indeed things have changed!" The wizard looked over the cliff at length, "But there is no mistaking the place. There is all that remains of the Stair Falls. If I remember right, there was a flight of steps cut in the rock at their side, but the main road wound away left and climbed with several loops up to the level ground at the top. There used to be a shallow valley beyond the falls right up to the Walls of Moria, and the Sirannon flowed through it with the road beside it. Let us go and see what things are like now!"

Emma huffed and puffed her way up the steps - her hiking endurance had improved, but less so her ability to climb stairs. When they finally reached the small valley between the mountains where the doorway to Moria was hidden, she was relieved for a whole two seconds before looking straight ahead.

Oh, _shit_. She'd forgot about the lake.

While Gandalf and Gimli discussed the way they would cross to the other side, Emma very carefully approached the water. It was perfectly still and dark with no reflection of light upon it. She couldn't even see any bottom to it. But she knew what lay within - some Cthulhu-esque being that would attack Frodo.

They had to make their way back down the stairs and over to the winding main road, as there was no other way to cross to the door. Unfortunately, upon climbing it, they found a creek they'd have to cross that was overgrown with weeds and algae and other gross bits of scum. Gimli went first, happily finding it to be ankle deep, and the others followed him in file, treading carefully as the rocks beneath were slippery. Emma hesitated when it was her turn, and, with utmost care, placed one foot in the water, then launched herself over onto the dry land. The others watched her with expressions ranging from exasperation to amusement as she shook the water off her boot, then held her head up high and walked past them with all the dignity she could muster.

Only Sam was left behind her, and once he had led Bill out of the water there was distinct _plop!_  sound. Emma spun around, hand on her hilt, ready to stab the shit out anything that dared leave the water. But only ripples on the surface showed any indication that there may be anything underneath.

"You're jumpy, Haudhaew," Aragorn put his hand on her shoulder, "What is that your senses tell you?"

"That there's something in the water, and I hate it." She frowned up at him, "Why are you calling me that now?"

He looked dramatically towards the others as they followed Gandalf to where the door would be. "It may be known to the enemy that a woman named Emma Smith travels with a company of hobbits and claims the Kingdom of Cardolan," he spoke softly, "You were not subtle in your time at the Prancing Pony."

She grimaced. "Yeah, fair point. I guess as we head further in I should get used to not hearing my name."

They followed the others, finding them standing by two large holly trees, larger than any she had ever seen.

"Well, here we are at last!" Gandalf stood wherr the door presumably was, "Here the Elven-way from Hollin ended. Holly was the token of the people of that land, and they planted it here to mark the end of their domain; for the West-door was made chiefly for their use in their traffic with the Lords of Moria. Those were happier days, when there was still close friendship at times between folk of different race, even between Dwarves and Elves."

"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned," Gimli growled.

"I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," said Legolas defensively

Emma threw up her hands and rolled her eyes in overdramatic exasperation, and heard a snort beside her. She glanced over to see Boromir turning away, covering his mouth while his shoulders shook with laughter.

"Quite so, Haudhaew," Gandalf called her out, "I have heard both, and I will not give judgement now. But I beg you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends, and to help me. I need you both. The doors are shut and hidden, and the sooner we find them the better. Night is at hand!

"While I am searching, will you each make ready to enter the Mines?" He looked to the others of the company, "For here I fear we must say farewell to our good beast of burden. You must lay aside much of the stuff that we brought against bitter weather: you will not need it inside, nor, I hope, when we come through and journey on down into the South. Instead each of us must take a share of what the pony carried, especially the food and the water-skins."

"But you can't leave poor old Bill behind in this forsaken place, Mr. Gandalf!" Sam defended his beloved pony, furious, "I won't have it, and that's flat. After he has come so far and all!"

"I am sorry, Sam, but when the Door opens I do not think you will be able to drag your Bill inside, into the long dark of Moria. You will have to choose between Bill and your master."

They fought for a few moments more, until Gandalf laid his hand on Bill's head, giving him a blessing of some nature to help him reach a safe haven. It didn't stop Sam from bursting into tears as soon as his pony nuzzled him, tearing off the straps of his baggage.

Emma and the others each rested a hand on Bill, and on Sam's shoulders, as they unpacked the pony's burdens on the ground. Aragorn attempted to keep Emma from taking her designated pillow-blanket, but she gave him a glower and he finally admitted defeat. Food and water was split between them, along with other small goods like fire starter and seasonings.

All the time they were sorting, Gandalf stood still, staring at the stone wall between the two hollies. While he did this, Gimli walked along the wall, tapping it with his axe, and Legolas pressed his head against the stone, listening. The Men and hobbits glanced at each other with varying looks of fascination and long-suffering as they waited for one of their less-mortal comrades to speak.

"Well, here we are and all ready," said Merry, looking pointedly at them, "But where are the doors? I can't see any sign of them."

"Dwarf-doors are not made to be seen when shut," Gimli amswered him, "They are invisible, and their own masters cannot find them or open them, if their secret is forgotten."

Gandalf spun around, as if suddenly awakened. "But this Door was not made to be a secret known only to Dwarves - unless things are altogether changed, eyes that know what to look for may discover the signs," he waved his hands over a part of the wall, muttering to himself, "Look! Can you see anything now?"

"No," answered Emma impulsively. The wall was still blank, even in the moonlight.

Movies and books couldn't prepare her for this moment. It was similar in some ways to a blanket with subtle metallic threads being pulled tight under the light, showing its pattern, but through solid rock. Silvery lines formed an image of two trees growing along pillars, a star inbetween and a crown above, with tengwar written above and below. Were there not a wizard in the way, Emma would have gone straight up to drag her hands along it, seeing if the pattern felt hot or cold, or of she could even feel it through the rock.

While the others all cried out in astonishment and discussed the meaning of the words and what the password might be, Emma wandered away to find a spot to use for a bathroom break.

There was a decent-sized rock that could provide cover for her as she squatted down, and she unsheathed her sword, staring directly at the edges of the dark pool of water - there was no way she was letting any of those tentacles catch her off guard.

Completing her business with no Lovecraftian interruptions, Emma returned to the fellowship just in time to see Gandalf shout the words ' _Edro_! _Edro_!' and toss his staff to the ground in frustration. She wished she could just run up to the wall and scream out the word ' _Mellon_!' and get this whole thing over with, but she'd have to answer too many questions that she didn't have reasonable answers to by Middle-earth standards.

On the wind they could hear the distant howling of wolves, but Emma wasn't worried the way the others were. The thing in the water would deal with them if they got near. Bill, on the other hand, was getting anxious, tossing his head back and forth and stamping the ground as Sam tried to reassure him.

Boromir turned to Sam. "Do not let him run away! It seems that we shall need him still, if the wolves do not find us. How I hate this foul pool!" Before Emma could stop him, he grabbed a large rock and threw it into the lake. There was no dramatic splash, only a small slap against the water. The water began to bubble where the rock sank, and ripples, more threatening than the average ripple one might come across, began to reach across the lake.

Emma made a high keening noise, then grabbed Boromir by shoulders and attempted to shake him. "Why? Why did you that? Why anger the gods against us any more?" She demanded of him as he stared at her wide-eyed, staying completely still against her attempts to shake sense into him.

"I hate this place too, Boromir, and I am afraid," Frodo chimed in to scold the Man, "I don't know of what: not of wolves, or the dark behind the doors, but of something else. I am afraid of the pool. Don't disturb it!"

Boromir gently removed Emma's hands from his shoulders - as he did so, his thumb traced over her knuckles and she nearly threw up between the anxiety of the black pool and her overwhelming infatuation. "Forgive me, my friends." He said softly, bowing his head to them.

Shaking off as much of her nausea as she could, Emma broke away from her crush. "Enough of this," she growled, storming over to Gandalf, "Look," putting her hand on his shoulder, she pointed at the elven words, "'Speak, friend, and enter.' It's a riddle. What's the word for friend here?"

The wizard looked up at the words, squinting his eyes. Suddenly he leapt up, laughing. "Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer."

He picked up his staff and stood smiling before the rock wall, calling out the word, " _Mellon_!"

The door's outline shone brightly, then slowly, inch by inch, it swung out towards them. Inside they could see stairs going both up and down, leading into darkness. Behind her, Gandalf chattered on to the others about the nature of the password, but Emma was riding a high. She did it! It was possible to change the books, she took control and got them through the password scene, and now they could escape the tentacles! Beaming, she hoisted up her baggage on her shoulders, then took a step into the doorway.

That's when she felt something wet and long wrap itself around her ankles, and the whole world went out from underneath her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is coming along 'swimmingly', but if you're looking to catch up on some of the ancient Tolkien fanfiction that Emma often references:
> 
> [Don't Panic!](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1690622/1/Don-t-Panic) \- probably the best of the Modern Girl in Middle-earth fanfics, and the inspiration for this fic  
> [Protectors of the Plot Continuum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211760/chapters/9518541) \- if Emma mentions that Jay and Acacia are coming for her head, it's these guys  
> [The Official Fanfiction University of Middleearth](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/644826/1/The-Official-Fanfiction-University-of-Middleearth) \- Miss Cam, mini-Balrogs, and very important lessons - I re-read this guy at least once a year
> 
> And for funsies, if you're enjoying this fic you can check out the Beacon of the Barrows [Pinterest](https://www.pinterest.ca/aimeegarriock/beacon-of-the-barrows/), [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/kc1rugd7l6az22jibwm5ko7gm/playlist/73UxwzG2fnizmuvbW0PdrA?si=9eqwI5NFQhSq7DqelwKsAg), or [8tracks playlist](https://8tracks.com/kattungefisk/lady-of-cardolan) that I use to inspire myself


	16. A Journey in the Dark Part II, or Emma Enjoys Some Fresh New Trauma

Emma wasn't sure which was worse - hitting the ground, _hard_ , twice in twenty-four hours, being dragged and scraped along the rocks of the shore into the freezing waters of the black pool, or the terror of looking over her shoulder and seeing a mass of awful, hideous tentacles rise out of the depths and writhe in the air.

In the immediate sense, it was definitely the first two, but she was sure the latter would have a lasting mental impact.

Not far from her she heard cries of fear, the pony neighing and galloping away, and Sam's cursing, but in her head it was happening second-by-second, her adrenaline keeping her mind on top of everything, the instinct that had led her to unsheathe her sword and strike out at the wargs the night before.

And this time, it wasn't a big puppy-dog she was facing - it was a tentacled creature the likes of which H. P. Lovecraft would have given his final pennies to see.

Emma knew she couldn't reach her sword, but as her feet hit the water she twisted around, grabbing at the tentacle. It was slippery and gross, like grabbing a garden-hose that had been left to collect scum in a pond, but the worst part was the muscles that she could feel moving inside. It was pulling hard and taut enough that she was able to pull herself up into a sitting position, her bruised back screaming the whole way, and grab a large rock, slamming it onto the tentacle as hard as she could.

The tentacle's grip loosened and she scrambled back as far as she could go before it seemed to recover itself and start to tighten its grip around her ankle again.

A pair of arms gripped her around the waist and yanked her away from the waters. "Sam! Get Frodo to the door!" Boromir cried out, picking Emma up and carrying her in his arms as he and the hobbits ran to the doorway, the boiling and odorous water behind them. Gandalf was also crying out something that Emma's mind couldn't quite comprehend while it was flooding her body with adrenaline.

As they crossed the threshold of Moria's gates, Emma watched over Boromir's shoulder as the tentacles followed them, writihing up the shore until the doors slammed shut behind them, leaving them all in darkness.

"Emma," Boromir whispered, holding onto her still, "Are you well?"

In response she gripped his cloak as tightly as she could, her knuckles white and painful. "Not quite yet."

Gandalf went up to the door, as far as she could hear, listening. "Well, well!" He said grimly, "The passage is blocked behind us now and there is only one way out--on the other side of the mountains. I fear from the sounds that boulders have been piled up, and the trees uprooted and thrown across the gate. I am sorry; for the trees were beautiful, and had stood so long."

"I felt that something horrible was near from the moment that my foot first touched the water," said Frodo, shivering.

Emma nodded against Boromir's chest. "Myself as well - whatever that creature is, I felt its presence before I felt its form." Boromir's arms tightened around her as she said it, and it almost made up for the terror of three minutes ago. She worked at loosening her grip on his cloak.

"Indeed - what was the thing, or were there many of them?" Frodo asked of Gandalf.

The wizard could not answer him. "I do not know, but the arms were all guided by one purpose. Something has crept, or has been driven out of dark waters under the mountains. There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world."

And beyond it, Emma thought of Cthulhu, but felt it was unnecessary to bring him up at this time.

"In the deep places of the world!" Boromir muttered darkly to himself, though in the quiet stone walls they all heard him clearly, "And thither we are going against my wish. Who will lead us now in this deadly dark?"

"I will," Gandalf announced, "and Gimli shall walk with me. Follow my staff!"

As the wizard began making his way up the steps, his staff began to shine gently, giving them all just enough light to see the next step ahead of them. Gently, Emma removed herself from Boromir's hold and followed behind the others, already doing her best to shove that experience down, and put off processing the terror for another day. She also made sure to pat down her pockets and ensure that the Dwarven ring and

They managed some two hundred steps to make it to level four when Frodo, ever the hobbit, suggested they break for a meal. Emma even treated herself to some of the jerkied game they had left, breaking kosher to eat away her feelings. Gandalf, again, passed around the miruvor - Emma almost refused, until she remembered that it went down with him when he fought the Balrog in a day or so.

She sighed as she took a sip. What an grim thought - but it was for the best, as he would return as Gandalf the White.

But as for Boromir… She changed the gates of Moria, slightly. Could she manage to save him?

"It will not last much longer, I am afraid," Gandalf told them as he stoppered the flask, "But I think we need it after that horror at the gate. And unless we have great luck, we shall need all that is left before we see the other side! Go carefully with the water, too! There are many streams and wells in the Mines, but they should not be touched. We may not have a chance of filling our skins and bottles till we come down into Dimrill Dale."

"How long is that going to take us?" Frodo asked.

"I cannot say. It depends on many chances. But going straight, without mishap or losing our way, we shall take three or four marches, I expect. It cannot be less than forty miles from West-door to East-gate in a direct line, and the road may wind much."

And so they marched on, even as tired and traumatized as they were - the faster they made it through the mines, the sooner they would be back in the sunshine and away from the horrors of cruel mountains, wargs, and tentacle monsters.

Gandalf and Gimli took the lead - the Dwarf had lost his cheer that had taken him from Caradhras to Moria, as the weight of what lay outside settled on him a fear of what may have befell his cousins. Emma herself walked between Boromir and Aragorn at the back, her sword out and at the ready in case anything came up behind.

And there was something behind them, she knew. She had wondered how he got into Moria - certainly not through the West entrance as they had. Perhaps he'd been lost in the mines for some time, and was now being guided by his supernatural obssession to their company.

Emma could hear, distantly, the footsteps of Gollum.

It had only happened once, when she had lagged behind again to use the bathroom - was the point of twisting corridors and little niches if she couldn't get some privacy? The men, the bastards, were able to just stand on the edge of the pathway over the depths of the mines while she had to sneak off.

It was just as she finished and was tying up her pants that she heard the snuffling and padded footsteps nearby. She had leaned out of her niche but saw only the last bits of light from Gandalf's staff. But deep in the dark, she could hear the steps coming closer.

"Privacy, please!" She hissed as quietly as she could into the dark. The footsteps and snuffling stopped, and she quickly made her way back to the fellowship, only sparing a single glance or two back.

They went deeper into the mines, following twisting pathways that led them downhill. The air grew grew warm and stifling, to the point where most of them doffed their cloaks, rolling them up to carry on their backs with their bags. Despite this, Emma found that she preferred this part of their travels so far - at least they were less at the whims of the weather. Gimli was Gandalf's advisor in this journey, though he had never been in the mines - the wizard relied on his dwarf logic in decision making, even if Gandalf had the final word.

Despite this, Aragorn still had to reassure them all at a longer pause and debate between the two guides. "Do not be afraid! Do not be afraid! I have been with him on many a journey, if never on one so dark; and there are tales of Rivendell of greater deeds of his than any that I have seen. He will not go astray if there is any path to find. He has led us in here against our fears, but he will lead us out again, at whatever cost to himself. He is surer of finding the way home in a blind night than the cats of Queen Berúthiel."

"Who?" Emma asked. She had known the name of Berúthiel, and that she had cats, but she knew little of the actual story behind the woman.

This so shocked and astonished Sam that he immediately began to tell her the tales of the Queen of Gondor and her spying cats, giving everyone a break from the anxiety of the mines.

And the Mines of Moria were very anxiety inducing.

Beyond the smothering air, twisting passages, narrow trails, and overall unsurety of their path, there were othe delightful surprises such as large crevices that crossed the path, some only a few feet wide, others up to seven feet, which the others bravely managed while Pippin and Emma stood on the other side.

"Not a chance," she told Legolas when he held put his arms to catch her, "If I'm gonna be stupid and break my neck doing this, I'm not taking anyone with me."

"Oh, aye, Emma- Haudhaew," Pippin caught himself, "Put that thought in my mind."

"Like it wasn't already there," she retorted, shrugging off her bags and rolled up cloak. She tossed it to Legolas, "Alright, I think I can do it now."

Not to be outdone, Pippin did the same, Legolas somehow managing to catch the hobbit's baggage while still holding Emma's. Both backed up a few feet, then with a grim handshake, they both ran at the crevice. Pippin made it easily, despite his fears, but Emma barely made it, touching the other edge with her toes and launching herself onto the ground to land it.

Gimli and Boromir pulled her up, and when she and Pippin hauled their bags back over their shoulders, they trudged on.

They spoke little now, and only in whispers. Usually it was only their footsteps that one could hear, aside from the trickling of water. That and Gollum's footsteps - they were ever present in the distance now, even more so than earlier, and though they didn't speak of it, they all heard it. But only Emma, and perhaps Gandalf and Legolas, could know what followed them.

They finally came to corridor where Gandalf could not guide them - an archway that led to three different passages, one going downwards, one upwards, and the last straight on into the dark.

"I have no memory of this place at all!" Gandalf searched the area for some sign of familiarity but found nothing, "I am too weary to decide, and I expect that you are all as weary as I am, or wearier. We had better halt here for what is left of the night. You know what I mean! In here it is ever dark; but outside the late Moon is riding westward and the middle-night has passed."

"Poor old Bill!" Sam spoke of his pony mournfully, "I wonder where he is. I hope those wolves haven't got him yet."

Emma patted his shoulder. "He definitely made it," she told him, drawing from what knowledge she had of the future, "If I know that pony, he's gone off to Breeland to kick Bill Ferny in the head and wait for his good Samwise to return." The hobbit looked up to her with an appreciative, if doubtful, smile.

They found a guard's room just inside of the archway, offering them shelter for a night. All of them gladly rushed into the room, after Gandalf checked it out, finding spots where they could curl up and sleep finally, after restless nights on mountains and fighting wolves. Emma was just fluffing up her blank-pillow as she liked it when there was an echoing sound, like the drop of a rock down a well. She spun around, only to find that that was exactly what it was, and Gandalf was rounding on Pippin.

"Fool of a Took!" He growled after Pippin explained what he had done, "This is a serious journey, not a hobbit walking-party. Throw yourself in next time, and then you will be no further nuisance. Now be quiet!"

Not long after that there was a strange sound, like a hammer signalling off down below in the well. Though it worried Gandalf, he did not focus too hard on it. However, he still put Pippin on as first watch in punishment.

They all settled in to rest, Emma gladly so after all the trauma of the day. She snuggled into her blanket, drifting off quite happily - but only a few minutes in, her half-asleep dreams took a darker turn. The tentacles of the lake were hunting her, and just as she began to run, she felt a sharp jolt  that shocked her awake - just the same as she felt when the tentacle had grabbed her.

Gasping slightly, her eyes flew open. Sitting up as quietly as she could, she felt around her ankle. There was, of course, nothing there. But she could still almost _feel_  the tentacle, wrapping itself around her and dragging her in the black depths.

She stopped herself from groaning - now she was wide awake and there would be no getting any sleep. She saw in the dim light Pippin, with his arms wrapped around his legs, staring at the pit glumly.

Trying not to disturb anyone, she got up with Beacenfyr and went out into the corridor. It was completely black - the light of Gandalf's staff did not reach so far. But she appreciated the quiet stillness. She couldn't hear Gollum anywhere in the dark and assumed that he had curled up somewhere to rest.

As she rested against the wall, she decided to go through the whole horrible experience with the tentacle monster again in her mind. She thought that was the correct way to deal with PTSD from when she took a psych elective at the beginning of her university years, re-exposure or something. Mentally, she put herself back at the gates, and allowed it to follow through.

She had just gotten to picking up the rock to smash the tentacle with when another person joined her. To her surprise it was Boromir - though she couldn't see him, she could hear his heavy footfall, which she had grown to recognize in the last hours alone.

"You cannot sleep." It was a statement, not a question.

Emma shook her head, even knowing he couldn't see her do so.

She heard him settle in beside her. "I have had soldiers who could not rest easy after their first fight," he said softly, "Battle is not easy, and you dealt with both the wargs and the monster in the lake this day."

"It wasn't my first fight," she reminded him, "And I think the Black Riders and wights are more terrifying than the wolves, but neither are as bad as that tentacle monster."

"Tentacle monster?" He seemed amused by her choice of words.

For a moment or two Emma didn't speak, collecting her thoughts into a coherent statement. "The Black Riders are only Men," she started slowly, "For all that they are feared, I have hit one, and I felt what frail creature lies beneath. If one is prepared, and strong of heart," the words were borrowed from Tom Bombadil, "Then I have no doubt they can defeat them.

"Wights, too, are only Men - long dead and unnatural they may be, a slice to a tendon, a break of the spine, and they still fall. They, too, can be fought and defeated. And the Wargs are dogs - were they properly fed, and were no evil things corrupting them, I doubt they would have even come near us.

"But the monster in the lake," she hesitated, thinking through it all, "I couldn't have even fought it. There was too much, the tentacles, not even being able to see it..." she shuddered, "I was completely defenceless. And I can still feel it around my ankle, pulling me into the water."

His hand fell on her shoulder in comfort. "I take great solace in your thought that the Riders are mortal, though my experience says otherwise," Boromir said, "This being was a true terror - my very body froze in its presence, until I saw you and Frodo in need. You are strong, and you survived, but I have seen the effects that such events can have on a soldier's mind. I have seen the bravest men suffer nightmares and terrors from their experiences in battle. Some," he spoke even quieter now, his voice distant, "Could not bear the weight of their troubles and took their own lives."

It took every bit of her strength not to reach out and hold him, but she wasn't sure if that would be acceptable or too forward. She settled for roughly patting his knee.

He chuckled quietly. "Thank you, but I do my best not to let it trouble my mind."

"How do you manage with your brother being a soldier?" She asked him, "If my brother went to war, I'd lose my mind with worry."

"I'd forgotten, you too are an elder sibling. You speak of your family little," he continued, thoughtfully, "Faramir is a strong fighter and a noble leader, and I fear for him naught as such - I did train him as I trained you. But he is idealistic - he does not see an allure in war, but in the nobility of his cause. I can only hope that his heart is never broken by what he fights for."

If that wasn't how every older sibling felt - fear that their ideals would be crushed, the need to protect their little brothers and sisters from parents and other figures that might harm them. Her Sam - she'd die to protect him from anyone that could hurt him, and even had thrown down with some bullies back in the day. And the first time Sara's heart had been broken by her trust in a story to give her a happy ending, it had been Emma who let her cry into her shoulder, then tossed 'The Little Match Girl' into the pond.

But for Boromir, she knew he meant greater ideals than a promise of a happy ending. The love and trust of a father, the stalwart walls of Minas Tirith - Boromir fought his own shadowy elder sibling fight to keep his brother's heart safe, even as his brother fought for those ideals.

"Does he take after your mother more? Or your father?" Emma asked, as though she didn't know what a ginormous prick Denethor was.

"He takes after our father," Boromir said to her surprise, "For once my father was a wise and noble man, who had great understanding of Gondor and its people. But since our mother's passing many years ago, he has become grim and pensive. He sits alone in thought far more than he should."

"Maybe I can send you all one of my moms," Emma joked, trying to lighten the mood, "I do keep a spare."

He chuckled in the darkness. "Indeed, I have not heard of a woman with two mothers before, but I am able to see it has served you well."

Emma bit back her usual reply to those who commented on her two mothers, 'From what I hear, fathers are overrated anyhow.' She suspected that joke would not go over well. But that just led her to the regular dark thoughts she tried to escape.

Maybe it would help to say them.

"I worry," she admitted, "That I won't ever see them again. That I'll die on this journey, or worse, that I'll survive but never find my way home."

She heard a ruffling in the darkness, and suddenly Boromir's hand brushed against her cheek. It withdrew instantly and landed on her shoulder, but her face was already flaming red from the touch.

"All soldiers face this fear," he said, kindly, "They must face the knowledge that every day they march out, they may not come back. It could be by the bite of an orc-sword, or they could be struck by an arrow, and even if the head did not pierce their heart, the poison the Enemy laces their weapons with will stop it soon enough. Even a sip of water can be their death, stealing their very health.

"Forgive me, Emma, but I can make you no promises, nor assurances. You may very die at any moment in this wretched journey, as may all of us. But I can tell you that you're not alone. Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli - they have lived warrior's lives and have faced this truth. All we can do is protect each other, and do our best to return to our families with pride and tales of heroism, and leave the dark threats behind us."

It was a beautiful speech, even if Emma found little comfort in it. But there were alternatives. "...Boromir, could I have a hug?"

He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing tight, as if he was doing his best to tell her she was safe right now, and Emma returned it firmly, burying her face into his shoulder. Her eyes welled up, but she refused to let any tears drop.

She still didn't sleep when they finally returned to the sideroom, but lay awake in her blankets, watching Gandalf smoke his pipe and keep watch.

When the others awoke, the wizard announced their new path. "I have made up my mind. I do not like the feel of the middle way; and I do not like the smell of the left-hand way: there is foul air down there, or I am no guide. I shall take the right-hand passage. It is time we began to climb up again."

It took _forever_. Emma wished she had the novel on her so that she could check how long the hike was supposed to take - Tolkien was always good about writing that down. Instead she was stuck silently trudging along, knowing there was yet another battle ahead, and that there was an eighty percent chance she'd die just because she didn't sleep. Also because there was a troll, but the lack of sleep was not helping her at all.

It must've been hours, and Emma was about ready to just drop and sleep on the floor when they passed through an archway into a wide empty space with a cold draft coming through. While the men all anxiously crowded together Emma walked forward, enjoying the space and freedom from the claustrophobic tunnels.

Behind her, Gandalf sounded pleased with himself. "I chose the right way. At last we are coming to the habitable parts, and I guess that we are not far now from the eastern side. But we are high up, a good deal higher than the Dimrill Gate, unless I am mistaken. From the feeling of the air we must be in a wide hall. I will now risk a little real light."

There was a sudden flash and the whole hall lit, vast pillars flying up to the ceiling of the cavern far up above, and along the walls there was the shimmering of glass, like windows.

"That is all that I shall venture on for the present," said Gandalf, "There used to be great windows on the mountain-side, and shafts leading out to the light in the upper reaches of the Mines. I think we have reached them now, but it is night outside again, and we cannot tell until morning. If I am right, tomorrow we may actually see the morning peeping in. But in the meanwhile we had better go no further. Let us rest, if we can. Things have gone well so far, and the greater part of the dark road is over. But we are not through yet, and it is a long way down to the Gates that open on the world."

They group all curled up together in the corner, except Emma, who found it too warm and was frankly enjoying the draft, and didn't feel like joining in on the others' conversation. She was curled up peacefully until Aragorn shook her awake for her watch. They had now broken off the watch into one person at a time, so that each would have more time to sleep.

While Emma was sitting alone in the dark, she heard the padding of feet not far off in the deep shadows. Gollum, daring to come close while the others slept. Emma held up a hand and waved towards where she heard him walking, and the sound of footsteps stopped instantly, and she remembered that he had excellent night vision. As quietly as she could, she dug some game jerky out of her bag and waggled it in the air before tossing it into the dark. She didn't hear it hit the ground.

Smiling to herself, she turned away to give him some more privacy when suddenly the jerky flew back and hit her in the face. Of course that was when she remembered that he only liked eating raw food. Instead she grabbed a near empty canteen of water and held it up again before throwing it back. This time after it didn't hit the ground she heard him crawling away.

"You shouldn't have thrown your water away Haudhaew," Legolas' voice was quiet, sounding as though he was being pulled out of a dream.

"Wasn't much left anyhow," she shrugged, "Anyways, if you're awake, you can keep watch." With that she curled back up into her blankets and fell asleep, her dreams troubled and uneasy.

She awoke to light, to her happiness. There was a beam of sunshine piercing through a small shaft in the roof, and she lay peacefully ignoring the whispers of the others, sheltered from the elements and drinking up the light. The others were discussing where they were and other fun things, such as the fact that this should be the last day that they were in Moria.

Which meant that Gandalf died that day.

Which meant the battle with the troll and the Balrog would be happening, and _she_  could die that day.

Groaning, she sat up, deciding with that thought that the sooner she had breakfast, the better.

While she was chewing away at her jerky, Gandalf spoke. "We are tired, but we shall rest better when we are outside. I think that none of us will wish to spend another night in Moria."

"No indeed!" Boromir looked visibly relieved. "Which way shall we take? Yonder eastward arch?"

"Maybe," Gandalf considered it, "But I do not know yet exactly where we are. Unless I am quite astray, I guess that we are above and to the north of the Great Gates; and it may not be easy to find the right road down to them. The eastern arch will probably prove to be the way that we must take; but before we make up our minds we ought to look about us. Let us go towards that light in the north door. If we could find a window it would help, but I fear that the light comes only down deep shafts."

Emma grimaced as they all went through to the corridor, remembering what lay within. Casting a look back at poor Gimli, unwary and unknowing, she sighed deeply as they entered the chamber beyond.

When they entered, they found a room coated in dust with a few shafts letting in light, one even showing a patch of blue sky. While the others peered about, Emma headed straight for that patch of light, getting as much sunlight as possible on her. Behind her, she heard Frodo's voice whisper as he approached the block of stone in the center. Gandalf spoke aloud.

"These are Daeron's Runes, such as were used of old in Moria. Here is written in the tongues of Men and Dwarves:  
Balin, son of Fundin  
Lord of Moria."

"He is dead then," Frodo said sadly, "I feared it was so."

As Emma turned to go and comfort Gimli, she felt a shadow fly over her face. Up above, in the deep blue of the sky, a single crebain circled.


	17. Chapter 17: The Bridge of Khazad-dûm, or Sorry, Emma

There was deep silence as the weight of what had befallen the Dwarves of Moria descended on the Fellowship. That Balin, the old friend of Bilbo and Gandalf and cousin of Gimli had such a terrible fate, and Ori and Óin had likely fared no better was dark news to them, a sudden lance to the relief that come from knowing they would leave Moria that day. Each of them suddenly knew that Moria had taken the lives of all those within her.

But for Emma, this was old news. She tried desperately not to fidget and to seem respectful, but she had known what was coming, and now looking carefully around the room, she saw the bones, swords, hammers, and armor that showed that the Dwarves had not gone willingly to their fate. She picked up one, giving it as thorough a going over as a scholar could, admiring the workmanship, even as it was so dented that one could see precisely how the Dwarf who had borne it died. Grimacing, she gently placed it back down.

The others were now moving to join her in searching over the room in grim silence. But as Emma looked into another corner, she saw something that caught her heart.

Slashed and burned, broken apart and laying nearly in pieces, was a book.

Having not seen a book properly for two weeks, Emma lunged at it, nearly shoving poor Merry aside as she dived, grasping it in her hands. The poor thing was weak and cracking and covered in stains, and she examined it fully, identifying the different stains as ink, oil, and blood. The binding was snapping apart, the strings of it pulled and frayed, and Emma was just moving to open it and analyze the parchment when Gandalf arrived beside her, taking it out of her hands (she made a small, unflattering whining noise as he did) and laid it across the sarcophagus of Balin.

As Gandalf read, Gimli and Frodo stood at either side of him. Emma crept up behind Frodo, putting her hands on his shoulders as she peered over his head to read.

"It seems to be a record of the fortunes of Balin's folk," Gandalf spoke at last after his studying of it, "I guess that it began with their coming to Dimrill Dale nigh on thirty years ago: the pages seem to have numbers referring to the years after their arrival. The top page is marked one - three, so at least two are missing from the beginning. Listen to this!

"'We drove out orcs from the great gate and guard' - I think; the next word is blurred and burned; probably room - 'we slew many in the bright' - I think - 'sun in the dale.' Flói was killed by an arrow. He slew the great. Then there is a blur followed by 'Flói under grass near Mirror mere.' The next line or two I cannot read. Then comes 'We have taken the twenty-first hall of North end to dwell in.' There is I cannot read what. A shaft is mentioned. Then Balin has set up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul."

Gimli nodded, listening intently to Gandalf's words. "The Chamber of Records. I guess that is where we now stand."

"Well, I can read no more for a long way," Frowning, the wizard turned through the pages in a way that did _not_ please Emma the Scholar - her manuscript studies TA would have had Gandalf's head, "Except the word gold, and Durin's Axe and something helm. Then Balin is now lord of Moria. That seems to end a chapter. After some stars another hand begins, and I can see 'we found true-silver', and later the word 'well-forged' and then something- I have it! 'Mithril'; and the last two lines, 'Óin to seek for the upper armouries of Third Deep', _something_ , 'go westwards', a blur, 'to Hollin gate.'

"There are several pages of the same sort, rather hastily written and much damaged," Gandalf placed those pages of parchment aside, "But I can make little of them in this light. Now there must be a number of leaves missing, because they begin to be numbered five, the fifth year of the colony, I suppose. Let me see! No, they are too cut and stained; I cannot read them. We might do better in the sunlight. Wait! Here is something: a large bold hand using an Elvish script."

Gimli identfied it as one of his cousins' writing, and Gandalf carried on. "I fear he had ill tidings to record in a fair hand. The first clear word is 'sorrow', but the rest of the line is lost, unless it ends in 'estre'. Yes, it must be 'yestre' followed by day being the tenth of novembre. Balin, Lord of Moria fell in Dimrill Dale. He went alone to look in Mirror mere. An orc shot him from behind a stone. we slew the orc, but many more ... up from east up the Silverlode. The remainder of the page is so blurred that I can hardly make anything out, but I think I can read we have barred the gates, and then 'can hold them long if', and then perhaps 'horrible' and 'suffer'. Poor Balin! He seems to have kept the title that he took for less than five years. I wonder what happened afterwards; but there is no time to puzzle out the last few pages. Here is the last page of all."

Judging by his face, nothing good was on it. "It is grim reading. I fear their end was cruel. Listen! 'We cannot get out. We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and second hall. Frár and Lóni and Náli fell there.' Then there are four lines smeared so that I can only read 'went 5 days ago.' The last lines run 'the pool is up to the wall at Westgate. The Watcher in the Water took Óin. We cannot get out. The end comes, and then drums, drums in the deep.' I wonder what that means." Emma grimaced, casting an eye towards the door. "The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: 'they are coming.' There is nothing more."

They all felt the chill from those words run down their backs. "'We cannot get out'," Gimli muttered darkly, "It was well for us that the pool had sunk a little, and that the Watcher was sleeping down at the southern end."

"I don't think there's anything 'well' about this," Emma growled, leaving their sides and positioning herself by the main door, collecting up heavier bits of armor and the broken swords, readying herself for a barricade.

"They seem to have made a last stand by both doors," Gandalf spoke behind her, "But there were not many left by that time. So ended the attempt to retake Moria! It was valiant but foolish. The time is not come yet. Now, I fear, we must say farewell to Balin, son of Fundin. Here he must lie in the halls of his fathers. We will take this book, the Book of Mazarbul, and look at it more closely later. You had better keep it, Gimli, and take it back to Dáin, if you get a chance. It will interest him, though it will grieve him deeply. Come, let us go! The morning is passing."

"Which way shall we go?" Asked Boromir, watching Emma with a look of deep concern.

"Back to the hall. Put down those weapons, Haudhaew, they are not necessary." Answered Gandalf while Emma blatantly ignored him, "But our visit to this room has not been in vain. I now know where we are. This must be, as Gimli says, the Chamber of Mazarbul; and the hall must be the twenty-first of the North-end. Therefore we should leave by the eastern arch of the hall, and bear right and south, and go downwards. The Twenty-first Hall should be on the Seventh Level, that is six above the level of the Gates. Come now! Back to the hall!"

And then the drums began.

The banging of drums, the running feet, a horn blowing, the sound of battle-cries. The men jumped - Emma just frowned deeper and shoved the broken swords in the crack beneath the door. They all cried out behind her, and she rolled her eyes, wishing that they would get with the program and help her, nevermind her foreknowledge.

The walls shook with the drum beats, stirring up the dust.

"Slam the doors and help Haudhaew wedge them!" Aragorn issued commands, "And keep your packs on as long as you can: we may get a chance to cut our way out yet."

Emma laughed under her breath

"No!" Cried Gandalf, "We must not get shut in. Keep the east door ajar! We will go that way, if we get a chance."

There was a clatter of metal as the fellowship drew their weapons, hearing the orcs outside sound off their horn again and rush towards the door. Coming up beside her, Boromir set his shoulder against the door, holding it as well as he could.

"Wait a moment! Do not close it yet!" Gandalf came forward, grasping Emma's shoulder, "Haudhaew, go ensure the eastern way is clear."

Emma launched herself up, ignoring Boromir's protests that he should go to scout ahead, and she booked it over to Aragorn, unsheathing Beacenfyr as she pressed her ear to the door, ignoring Gandalf's drama at the west door.

"I hear little. You should be fine, but go carefully." Aragorn opened the door just enough for her to slip through.

It was an empty stair leading down into the dark, and Emma would leave it so, even with her fire-making kit in her pocket. Though she was quite sure that there wasn't anything down this way, she wouldn't alert anyone. Even with the darkness, though, Emma rushed her way down. There were a few passages leading off down other ways, but there seemed to be no one in them - not until the last.

Emma had reached as far as she felt comfortable leaving the others behind and had only paused for a second as she looked back up the stairs to the chamber. That second was just enough for the hair on the back of her neck to tingle and she quickly pulled back, hearing the sudden slap of bare feet right in front of her. Two luminescent orbs glimmered in the air.

Suddenly, a plot hole that had always bothered her filled itself in. " _You_ alerted them," she gasped, "Before or after I showed you kindness, Sméagol?"

"Filthy woman trickses," Gollum hissed at her, crouching down - she could only tell by the descent of his eyes, "You has something he wantsss..."

She grimaced. "And I thought I had left Tinder back home," she muttered. Raising her sword in front of her, she began to climb the stairs again. "Try anything, Sméagol, and I won't be so kind as to spare you twice." Absolutely she would for the sake of the plot, but she was fine uttering threats - and a warning, "Aragorn, Gandalf, and the Prince of Mirkwood are up there. You'd best run off hoping they won't find you."

He didn't follow as she ran back up the stairs, but she heard him growling and muttering as he skulked back into the shadowy corridors. The sounds of battle upstairs forced her to rush up, and she pushed open the east door just in time to watch Boromir fly past her and land on the ground. She reached down to pull him up, only to find herself face-to-face with an orc as he dove for Frodo with his spear.

Forgetting her sword entirely, she slammed her foot into him, a moment too late as his spear had pierced Frodo, but his attempt to pull out his scimater and finish the job was foiled as Emma kicked him aside. The practice at Rivendell guided her sword and as Aragorn's sword slammed down onto the orc's helm with brutal force, Emma pierced its throat. It gurgled up black blood as it fell, defeated by the swords of princes.

But Emma wasted no time, and neither did the other swordsmen as they all lunged at the orcs that were left, who howled as they fled into the corridor. She followed, intending to bar the door shut so they had more time to escape, but morbid curiousity took hold and she poked her head out the door, looking to the great hall.

An arrow nearly struck her, but Emma froze for another reason as she stared into the hall, as there was no longer any beam of sunlight piercing through the shadows - no, the shadows now engulphed the hall entire, and there was almost the hint of a figure striding heavily towards them. Another arrow flew, grazing her head this time, but she did not even move, the power and terror of the _thing_ there in the hall overwhelming her. It seemed to pause as the orcs fell away from it, and lifted its hand towards her. Her own hand fell to her pouch, where there was a deep burning heat from the Dwarven ring.

Whether it was the stunning from the arrow or the shadowy being, Emma hardly noticed as she was suddenly hauled away from the door and it was slammed shut, being hoisted over someone's shoulder and carried off into the darkness of the east door.

It took a few moments before she began to gain her senses back - mostly when the person carrying her jostled her too hard and her head slammed into their back right along the graze from the arrow. She gasped and swore.

"Emma?" She heard Boromir ask somewhere in the distance.

"Do not let her go - whatever enemy this is, she is held in his thrall."

She wanted to tell them to fuck off, or at least mutter 'pissants' at them, but her head was annoyingly foggy. There were dark thoughts circulating inside, whispers that didn't sound like her own inner voice, in a harsh, spitting language. Flashes of jewels, of flame, the clashing of metal against stone - Emma clenched her eyes shut, and did her best to seek out better thoughts, but they kept escaping her.

As they descended, the images in her mind grew stronger. Overwhelming feelings of greed, of the need for gold and jewels and much more, so much more. Around her the air grew warmer, and she felt as though fire was licking at her skin. A groan escaped and she clutched at her head, feeling confused as she pulled it away, feeling sticky wetness on her hand.

Finally they stopped, and Emma was placed carefully on the ground. Her stomach swirled at the sudden change of position, and she curled up in a ball against the wall.

The part of her mind that didn't feel as though it was trapped in a nightmare knew that some exposition was happening - she heard voices, real voices, not like the ones in her head, nearby, but she couldn't concentrate. She tried to cover her ears to drown everything out, but stronger hands took her by the wrists and brough them down, another, smaller hand touching her head. A hiss escaped her when they prodded her wound.

"It's not deep," she thought that might be a hobbit speaking, "But it's bleeding quite a bit. What's wrong with her? She cannot hear us calling - is she in the deep water?"

Another hand now, on her head. The ones on her wrist now held her hands gently but firmly as the gravelly voice spoke, but her mind was sinking into darkness again.

Once again she was lifted up, but this time she was carried more carefully, her head resting on its unwounded side against someone's shoulder.

The heat now was overwhelming, and when Emma dared to open her eyes the littlest bit, she saw only red, glowing light. Groaning she hid her face in her bearer's shoulder. Flames consumed her mind, and screams, horrible screams. Drums began beating again in the strange outside world and her hands once again flew up to try and shut the noises out, shut out everything and give in to the horrors in her mind.

A brief word suddenly pierced through the darkness - "Sam!"

Sam? Her brother? Her baby brother? The little part left of her, that small part of her concious, reached out and grasped onto the name with desperation.

Her first sibling. She remembered sitting in the living room with Mama, seeing her belly kick, feeling it with eyes wide as Mum told her how she used to kick even harder in _her_ belly. Being six years old and handed a baby, now washed and cleaned with little dark curls on his head, but screaming his lungs out. Not the screams of the dying and flame-licked, but the screams of being _alive_.

More screams, but now it was a little girl, the prettiest baby Emma had ever seen, gripping her finger so fiercly, growing into that ferocity as Emma watched, now a teenager, picking the little girl up from every fall and scrap just to watch her run straight back into it.

The body carrying her shook with laughter, but Emma didn't care, her mind was too busy grasping desperately at every memory, every bit of light it could get.

Samuel kissing a sheep on the nose.

Sara's giggles seeing her sister's face in every game of peek-a-boo.

Little Samuel, a shovel and bucket in hand, staring lovingly at a starfish in a tidepool for the first time.

Sara smiling down from the hayloft the first time she climbed it alone.

Samuel's stupidly large stack of books on every sea creature that the library had to offer.

Sara, raising her first 4H sheep and making a passionate stand to not sell her to the slaughter-

"Ai! Ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!"

Slaughter-

"Durin's Bane!"

The arms around her clutched her tighter as she gasped, hearing the screams and flames again, the faces of her sibligs disappearing into the flames, and she let out a wail of despair, matched only by the sudden blast of a horn, loud, clear, and enough to startle her awake and look into the face of Boromir above her.

Dazed, she heard Gandalf crying out to them, telling them to run, to fly, but Boromir, even holding her in one of his arms, did not move, nor did Aragorn. Instead, he murmured something in her ear that she did not catch as she stared in horror at Gandalf and the Balrog, only realizing as Boromir drew _her_ sword that he could not reach his own. She shoved herself away from him suddenly, dropping to the ground and desperately scrambling back, feeling Gimli grasp her arm and pull her along with him and Legolas and the hobbits.

"You cannot pass," Gandalf declared, firm as an oak in a hurricane, and a silence fell, both outside and inside Emma's head, "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass."

But the Balrog pushed forward, a gleaming red sword piercing the shadows towards Gandalf, only to be met by Glamdring.

"You cannot pass!"

The Balrog once again leapt forward towards the wizard, now wielding a whip of fire, sparking in the dark.

Aragorn burst forward. "He cannot stand alone! Elendil!" He cried out, "I am with you, Gandalf!"

"Gondor!" Boromir roared as he too raced forward to stand with Gandalf against the dark creature.

Gandalf raised his staff, crying out and striking the bridge, and it crumbled beneath the Balrog, and it fell back into the flames beneath. But the Balrog knew no defeat - it's whip swung up and grasped Gandalf around the knees, dragging him to the edge, as the old man grasped at the stone. He looked up at them once, desperately. "Fly, you fools!"

And that was the last they saw of Gandalf the Grey.

They were frozen in place, Gimli, Legolas, Emma, and the hobbits, the terror of what had taken place sinking into their minds. But Aragorn and Boromir came racing back to them as the rest of the bridge fell to pieces behind them.

"Come! I will lead you now!" Aragorn shouted as he took the lead, "'We must obey his last command. Follow me!"

They all ran. Emma found her hand taken by Pippin, sobbing beside her, and she squeezed it as they fled the mines, hearing the drums behind them.

The light grew brighter as they reached the gates - what few orcs were on guard fled as soon as Aragorn struck, slashing their captain and killing him in a single blow. Not one of the fellowship stopped, fleeing into the light, and not stopping until they were far enough from the walls of Moria that they were in no danger of arrows.

There they stopped, and though the others looked back towards the mine where they had lost Gandalf, Emma paid it no heed. In a sudden rage, she ripped off the pouch with the Dwarven ring and her Smithy coin, casting them to the ground in fury, the words spoken by Gandalf as she suffered coming back to her.

" _Dragon-sickness_."

That fucking ring could go to Hell - she thought herself immune from it, bearing it only physically, but the ugly thing had taken control of her mind, tormenting her in the depths of the Dwarven pits. She flung out her arm as though she could throw it again, this time farther from her, only to catch a glimpse of her wrist as her shirt sleeve lifted, seeing the bare skin.

The bare, empty skin, with flashes of blue numbers crossing her vision.

A fresh horror and understanding of the flames came over her, and Emma gave into her despair and fell to her knees, weeping.


	18. Lothlórien Part I, or Emma Didn't Die, But God, At What Cost?

They spent some time weeping on the stones of the Misty Mountains - the Fellowship for their loss of Gandalf, and Emma for a deeper loss that echoed in her blood and bones. But the day was continuing on, the uncaring sun and wind beating against them as they moved along the sky. Nature stopped for no mourning, even for a loss as great as the wizard's.

Finally, Aragorn wiped his eyes one last time and called to them. "Alas! I Fear we cannot stay here longer," He pulled out Anduril and held it in salute to the mountain. "Farewell, Gandalf! Did I not say to you: if you pass the doors of Moria, beware? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?

"We must do without hope," He said as he returned to them, "At least we may yet be avenged. Let us gird ourselves and weep no more! Come! We have a long road, and much to do."

"'We must do without hope.' Inspiring," Emma muttered bitterly, hauling herself to her feet and wiping her eyes. A sudden wave of dizziness overtook her, and she reached out to try and steady herself. As she did so, a large hand took hers and pressed a hilt to her palm.

She did her best to smile at Boromir, but she couldn't. "Thank you for giving Beacenfyr a moment of glory."

"Were I only able to have given it another, and saved Gandalf." He answered darkly, clearly in the same mood as her. Looking her over again, he opened up his arms.

The corner of her mouth twitched down. "I can walk." It might not be for the best, with her head wound that she was starting to feel again, but she'd be damned if she let herself be carried around like a burden the whole journey.

"I thought I might offer." He spotted her pouch at his feet and picked it up, "This is yours, is it not?"

She hesitated for a moment. The stupid ring could fall into the cracks of the mountain and vanish for all she cared - let the piece of shit rust in the darkest crevices. But her scaetta was in there, the coin that was the last connection she had to everything she left behind.

Gingerly, she took it from his hand, tying it to her belt. They would be going to Lothlórien now, and the piece of crap ring should have less power there, and if worst came to worst she could just stay there rather than risk the rest of the journey. Living in Lothlórien for a couple months did sound appealing, amongst the Galadhrim and in the Elven gardens. But if she stayed there she wouldn't be able to save Boromir, and looking back up at him she knew she couldn't stay safe and let him fall. He met her eyes and suddenly frowned, backing up and, oddly, giving her a little bow and moving away. Emma furrowed her brows in confusion but didn't stop him leaving.

As they began their march away from Moria, Gimli spotted a lake laying below. "There lies the Mirrormere, deep Kheled-zâram!" He sighed heavily, "I remember that he said: 'May you have joy of the sight! But we cannot linger there.' Now long shall I journey ere I have joy again. It is I that must hasten away, and he that must remain."

They took an ancient road that winded its way through heather and gorse as it led them down the mountain. Emma could not help herself and reached out to touch the plants. Gorse was so invasive back home that she had spent a summer or two pulling it out of the woods around the farm, but here she could take a moment to appreciate it in its natural habitat. A shout pulled her from her reverie.

"That is Durin's Stone!" Gimli called out, pointing up to a cracked rock, "I cannot pass without turning aside for a moment to look at the wonder of the dale!"

Aragorn told him to be quick about it, and the dwarf ran off with Frodo and Sam behind him. Emma and the others watched them go.

Beside her Emma heard a small sniffle, and she reached out to wrap an arm around Pippin's shoulders. She didn't say anything - what could she say? 'Don't worry, he'll be back in ten chapters'? 'It's alright, he had to die'? Hard pass. They just stood together, Merry joining on Pippin's other side, and watched as Gimli, Frodo, and Sam wandered to the lake, then back.

As they made they way down south, they passed a beautiful spring, with water that gleamed like ice. Gimli warned them not to drink of it due to the cold.

"Soon it becomes a swift river, and it gathers water from many other mountain-streams," Aragorn added, "Our road leads beside it for many miles. For I shall take you by the road that Gandalf chose, and first I hope to come to the woods where the Silverlode flows into the Great River - out yonder."

They all looked out at the river, but Emma was distracted by what lay beyond it, a forest of golden trees. Her heart beat a little faster.

"There lie the woods of Lothlórien!" Cried out Legolas in delight, "That is the fairest of all the dwellings of my people. There are no trees like the trees of that land. For in the autumn their leaves fall not, but turn to gold. Not till the spring comes and the new green opens do they fall, and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers; and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof, and its pillars are of silver, for the bark of the trees is smooth and grey. So still our songs in Mirkwood say. My heart would be glad if I were beneath the eaves of that wood, and it were springtime!"

"My heart will be glad, even in the winter," said Aragorn, speaking Emma's thoughts, "But it lies many miles away. Let us hasten!"

As the others went ahead, Emma lingered behind with Sam and Frodo. She checked her bags, but found that they'd ripped open in the chaos of the battle in the mines and she'd lost any rations or water that she'd had left, along with her hair ties, pins, comb, and, to her immense sorrow, her blanket-pillow. Sam, too, had a head wound, and Frodo was bruised soundly by the spear. The three did their best, but the others were moving fast, and it didn't take long for them to get far behind.

"Do you think they'll remember us?" She asked wryly. The cut along her temple was feeling tight and her mood was dark.

Sam muttered beside her. "They'd best come back for Mr Frodo, or I'll have a few words for Strider!"

"I am quite fine, Sam!" Protested Frodo, "But you and Haudhaew look quite the pair, and I should hope you can wash soon."

The two stared at him. "The blood - Sam, your hair is nearly is as red as Haudhaew's, and she looks as though she's growing half a beard to match Gimli's!"

Quickly licking her fingers, Emma rubbed at the side of her face and found dried red flecks of blood on her hand. Sam, too, was checking his hair.

"Well, if any orcs come at us from behind, we'll be able to scare them off." She attempted to joke, but none of them were in the mood for jollity. A shout made them look back to the others, and Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas were coming towards them.

"I am sorry, Frodo!" Aragorn ran to them, his face full of worry, "So much has happened this day and we have such need of haste, that I have forgotten that you were hurt; and Sam and Haudhaew too. You should have spoken. We have done nothing to ease you, as we ought, though all the orcs of Moria were after us. Come now! A little further on there is a place where we can rest for a little. There I will do what I can for you. Come, Boromir, Legolas! We will carry them."

Emma was ready to tell Boromir not to try and carry her again when he reached down and scooped up Sam - the look of surprise and glances at her by Aragorn and Legolas said that they had expected the same. She tried not to feel a bit rejected as he passed by, marching ahead with his hobbit.

Frodo was picked up by Aragorn, and Emma walked straight past Legolas when he crouched down with his back to her, offering a piggyback ride. When he caught up to her, he offered an arm, and she sighed and gave in leaning on him slightly and trying not to let on that she wasn't feeling a hundred percent. Giving that Legolas kept looking at her with blatant concern on his face, she knew she was failing.

In the early afternoon they found a little dell by a stream, surrounded by some fascinating ferns Emma had never seen, and little berries that Sam called 'whortleberries' but Emma was pretty sure were bilberries. She, Sam, and Frodo were sat in a small line by Aragorn as the others made a fire and prepped water and bindings.

Emma insisted he look over the hobbits first, and so he did, clearing Sam despite all the blood. Next was Frodo, and she watched in amusement as they were all awed by his mithril shirt.

"Look, my friends!" Laughed Aragorn, "Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven-princeling in! If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire."

Gimli remarked on Gandalf's undervaluing it, shaking his head in wonder as Aragorn returned to taking care of Frodo. The poor hobbit was nearly purple with bruises, and Aragorn made sure to crush up extra dried kingsfoil to boil. Then he moved onto to Emma.

Her prognosis was less good.

"Poison," he declared grimly tilting her head to the light, "It is some luck that you have managed thus far, Haudhaew, but we should have stopped to care for it sooner. That is my fault - I was too eager to press our march."

"I have seen many such wounds in battle," Boromir had come over to see the wound, "The orcs use poison as a cook might use salt. But Haudhaew's does not seem nearly so grave - by now most men's wounds have begun to rot their skin, but though her's is hot to the touch," he had placed his fingers gently on her skin, making her wince, "There seems to be no dying off."

It wasn't too much of a surprise to her, she thought as they discussed a proper treatment. Whatever animal they used to get the poison, likely a snake, wouldn't be nearly so poisonous as it would be after six thousand years of evolution. With her modern person's adaptations, she'd be more resistant to such poisons. Next she lifted up her shirt so that Aragorn could look at her bruises. Her ribs and back were not so darkly bruised as Frodo's, but yellow and violet bloomed all over her.

The three wounded members of the company were washed with the athelas water as the others prepped the food. The athelas took the sting out of the pain, but not enough to keep Emma from crying out when Aragorn tightly braided her hair out of the wound.

After eating, they made to march again, with a quick bathroom break. When Emma came out of the bush she had selected for privacy, she found Aragorn waiting for her against a tree.

"I thought we were past this." She said dryly.

"I thought we were past hiding things, but I have found that not to be true, Haudhaew." He looked at her with disappointment in his eyes, "You knew what would happen in Moria."

"So did you," she pointed out, "You warned Gandalf."

He nodded. "This is true - I had some inkling of what fate lay within the mines for him. But you, you were barricading the doors before the drums even began."

Damn her over-eagerness. Emma bit the inside of her cheek, thinking of how to respond, but Aragorn needed no answer to continue.

"Elrond had spoken to me of your possible foreknowledge. That the stories of this quest may have passed into legend over the ages, and you could be looked to for some knowledge of our fates. But to know to bar the doors - that is such detailed foreknowledge that I cannot help but wonder, if you knew what waited for Gandalf in the dark?"

She broke in quickly, to keep him from monologuing further. "Would it help if I told you that Gandalf's loss begets a far greater power returning to Middle-earth to fight along side us?"

This caught his attention. "So the loss of a dear companion will give us a greater ally?" He looked down in thought, but shook his head, "In my heart I wonder if it's a fair trade."

She wished she could comfort him further, but he looked up again, his grey eyes sharp. "But how do you come by such knowledge? Surely the stories of Men are not so incorruptable that our tale lasts the ages untainted. The door, Haudhaew - how did you know to bar the door?"

There would be no getting out of this one, she could tell, but at least he was looking at her kinder than he had the night at Weathertop, when he held her at swordpoint and demanded answers from her.

"There is a book," Emma said carefully, "A book yet unwritten. Bound in red leather, it passes through the ages, translated from Westron to my language, English, and it comes into the hands of a man we call the Professor." For some reason, giving him Tolkien's name felt inappropriate.

"'Professor'?" Aragorn cocked his head, "I know not the word."

"A teacher and a scholar," she defined it, "The Professor studied language and history, in the same field as me. He was my inspiration," Emma sighed happily at the thought of academia - the many months away from university had turned pain to fond nostalgia, "He found the Red Book of Westermarch and translated it, releasing it to the public as a novel, a fictional tale."

"And you read this book," the look of realization almost crossed over with fear, "You know our fates."

"Not all," Emma said quietly, "I'm not in the book. Nor are many I have met in Rivendell, or the Rangers you have given to me as kin."

"Our fellowship?"

She looked away. "...It won't be the same," she whispered, "I'm here. It's not the same."

Aragorn came up to her now, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Do not carry this weight of foreknowledge so heavily, Haudhaew," he advised her solemnly, "Our fates are written, even if this Red Book is not. We who know your story take solace in the mere knowledge that you and your people exist, and that there is a future our fight is for. You must do the same - know that each sacrifice we make is one to keep your family and your people safe."

But her people weren't safe. The screams of her visions filled her ears, and she gently reached up to pat Aragorn's cheek like an old auntie.

"Your words are kind, and I thank you for them." She walked past him back to the stream, collecting her her bedroll and bag, firmly back into her grim mood.

They kept on, Emma walking with Legolas who would not let her out of his sight anymore and kept asking her if she felt quite alright, and if the beauty of Lothlórien was apparent to her yet. She nodded along politely, but her eyes were drawn back to Boromir, whose shoulders were set in such a way that Emma had learned to understand as him being unhappy with something.

He would make it known soon enough.

"Lothlórien!" Legolas cried out as they reached the edge of the wood, "Lothlórien, Haudhaew! We have come to the eaves of the Golden Wood. Alas that it is winter!"

The forest was both silver and gold in the starlight, and Emma tried her best to look appropriately impressed, but her head was bothering her, her mood was low, and she was waiting for Boromir to throw another shitfit.

"Lothlórien!" Aragorn spoke with relief, "Glad I am to hear again the wind in the trees! We are still little more than five leagues from the Gates, but we can go no further. Here let us hope that the virtue of the Elves will keep us tonight from the peril that comes behind."

"If Elves indeed still dwell here in the darkening world." Pointed out Gimli.

Legolas provided the expostition. "It is long since any of my own folk journeyed hither back to the land whence we wandered in ages long ago, but we hear that Lórien is not yet deserted, for there is a secret power here that holds evil from the land. Nevertheless its folk are seldom seen, and maybe they dwell now deep in the woods and far from the northern border."

"Indeed deep in the wood they dwell," sighed Aragorn, no doubt thinking of his time there with Arwen, "We must fend for ourselves tonight. We will go forward a short way, until the trees are all about us, and then we will turn aside from the path and seek a place to rest in."

As Aragorn made to enter the wood, Boromir spoke up. "Is there no other way?"

"What other fairer way would you desire?" Asked Aragorn, almost sarcastically, and the rest of the company stood still, watching the Men bicker.

"A plain road, though it led through a hedge of swords," Boromir retorted "By strange paths has this Company been led, and so far to evil fortune. Against my will we passed under the shades of Moria, to our loss. And now we must enter the Golden Wood, you say. But of that perilous land we have heard in Gondor, and it is said that few come out who once go in; and of that few none have escaped unscathed."

"Say not unscathed, but if you say unchanged, then maybe you will speak the truth," said Aragorn. "But lore wanes in Gondor, Boromir, if in the city of those who once were wise they now speak evil of Lothlórien. Believe what you will, there is no other way for us - unless you would go back to Moria-gate, or scale the pathless mountains, or swim the Great River all alone." Suddenly both Men looked back towards Emma and, startled, she glanced between them in suspicion. No doubt they both wanted her support, as the only other Man of the group and a noble one (even if fraudulently). With a heavy sigh, she nodded at Aragorn and Boromir's face fell a little, but he resigned himself to it.

"Then lead on!" Boromir agreed at last, "But it is perilous."

"Perilous indeed - fair and perilous; but only evil need fear it, or those who bring some evil with them. Follow me!" As Boromir turned to make his way into the woods, Aragorn looked back at Emma, and nodded towards Boromir.

She was pretty sure soothing men's egos was not on the list of duties belonging to the Lady of Cardolan and vassel of the King, but she supposed it could be worse than reassuring Boromir that he was valid though that there was nothing to fear. Maybe she'd even throw in that he was handsome, just to stroke the ego a little more.

Letting go of Legolas' arm, she scooched up to Boromir. "May I take your arm?" She asked politely, "I want to free up Legolas in case he decides to run up a tree."

He snorted quietly and extended his arm to her and Emma leaned on it, finding it to be far thicker and heavier than the elf's. They walked in silence for a moment.

"Do you feel safe here?" He asked her of a sudden, quietly.

Emma nodded, stepping carefully over a tree root. "Safer than Moria."

"In Gondor they say that men who cross into the Golden Wood rarely come out - but we should trust in Aragorn, I suppose." His voice carried a twinge of bitterness.

She stroked his arm, reassuringly she told herself, not to feel up his muscles. "I do not wish to suggest that the gossips of Gondor are wrong, but I would trust the man who has walked under these trees before I would take the word of one who hasn't left his own borders."

"My, Emma, that was nearly a speech," she scowled up at him and he let out a small laugh, "Perhaps you are right."

"I am." She leaned up to whisper in his ear, "He pledged himself to Arwen Undómiel here."

Boromir quieted, then nodded minutely. "Then I understand."

He seemed deep in thought, and Emma let him be, happy to have succeeded in her task. Aragorn glanced back at her gratefully, and she threw him a small grin.

It didn't take long for them to come across another stream, and for Legolas to lose his mind in excitement again. "Here is Nimrodel!" He told them all, practically giddy, "Of this stream the Silvan Elves made many songs long ago, and still we sing them in the North, remembering the rainbow on its falls, and the golden flowers that floated in its foam. All is dark now and the Bridge of Nimrodel is broken down. I will bathe my feet, for it is said that the water is healing to the weary. Follow me!" He called to them as he crossed the water, "The water is not deep. Let us wade across! On the further bank we can rest. and the sound of the falling water may bring us sleep and forgetfulness of grief."

Emma was helped across by Merry and Boromir, and on the other side found herself tended by Aragorn again. He had kept a little of the athelas tincture in a flask, and poured it once more over her cut. "It's improving," he announced, "But she is not yet clear of the danger. Haudhaew, should it begin to ache again you must tell us at once."

"Yes, mother," she sighed, inciting laughter from the hobbits and Gimli.

Legolas kept them all entertained as they ate, telling them stories of Lothlorien heard Mirkwood. Nearby Boromir began to visibly relax, hearing tales reassuring him of Lothlórien's beauty and inherent goodness. The trickling of the waterfall nearby had a melodious quality to it, and Legolas began to sing:

"An Elven-maid there was of old,  
A shining star by day:  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver-grey.  
A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light was on her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
In Lórien the fair.  
Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
And fair she was and free;  
And in the wind she went as light  
As leaf of linden-tree.  
Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
By water clear and cool,  
Her voice as falling silver fell  
Into the shining pool.  
Where now she wanders none can tell,  
In sunlight or in shade;  
For lost of yore was Nimrodel  
And in the mountains strayed..."

Emma's eyes began to droop as the elf sang, and a yawn escaped from her. The others were in a similar state, and it was decided that they would climb into the boughs of the trees, despite Pippin's protests that he was no bird and could not perch. He and Legolas sniped at each other as Legolas began to climb - only for a sharp commmand from above to order him down.

Peering up, Emma tried to spot the Galadhrim in the night, but Legolas warned them. "Stand still! Do not move or speak!"

There was laughter from the trees, and the voices above began to speak with Legolas in a language unknown to Emma.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry.

"They're Elves, can't you hear their voices?" Answered Sam.

"Yes, they are Elves," Legolas confirmed, "and they say that you breathe so loud that they could shoot you in the dark." Emma glared up to the threat at her hobbits, "But they say also that you need have no fear. They have been aware of us for a long while. They heard my voice across the Nimrodel, and knew that I was one of their Northern kindred, and therefore they did not hinder our crossing; and afterwards they heard my song. Now they bid me climb up with Frodo; for they seem to have had some tidings of him and of our journey. The others they ask to wait a little and to keep watch at the foot of the tree, until they have decided what is to be done."

A rope ladder dropped down and the invited two climbed, along with Samwise who would not be left behind by Frodo at any cost. The rest of them stood below, Emma yawning as they waited for them to settle and decide what would be done.

After some minutes Legolas came back down, and the Big Folk were sent to another tree platform as Merry and Pippin climbed up to join Frodo and Sam. After hiding most of their bags, they clambered up the rope ladder, Emma being sent up first so she had four spotters on the ground if she became too dizzy. Grumpily she forced herself to make it up.

Another elf climbed up after them, introducing himself as Rúmil- or did so to Legolas and Aragorn. Emma, Gimli, and Boromir were ignored. The three of them sat on the platform awkwardly, listening to the others speak the language of the woodelves that none of them knew. When Aragorn indicated towards Emma, Rúmil reached into a pouch on his leg and pulled out a small balm, which Aragorn brought back over.

"They use this to treat orc-wounds," he explained, dabbing it on her head, "I believe that with this you shall have little to fear than a scar - and that you can cover with your hair."

"I thought I might keep it in braids, show it off." She joked, hauling a blanket over her shoulders. It was cooler in the air than on the ground, and she was prepping herself to try and sleep without a pillow.

Aragorn, however, made her sleep in an upright position against the tree trunk in the center of the platform. According to him, it was safer for her to keep her head up to avoid the wound swelling. She was sure modern medicine had disproved that, but he wouldn't take any arguments against it, and so she sulkily leaned against the tree as the others lay down.

She didn't get much sleep, as every time she started to drift off she'd tip over, jolting awake. Not that she truly wanted to sleep, for fear of what might lie in her dreams. Instead, she entertained herself with thoughts of returning home and how she would explain all her new scars to her family. She was concocting a very dramatic tale involving a cycling incident ("I didn't want to worry you - the cost? Oh, no, it was covered by my travel insurance-") when she heard the stomping of feet and ringing of metal. She poked her head over the edge of the platform, looking below.

Orcs in a small pack trod through the wood below, talking quietly in harsh sounds. Emma took the time to observe them, wrapping her blanket around her head and face to conceal herself further.

In the mines she had been too busy fighting, or... or not being well, to truly look at the orcs. Once she had read that orcs were, in one of Tolkien's origins for them, corrupted Elves, but they had none of the fine features of the Elves, only that same, strange otherworldliness about them. But where the Elves were otherworldly in their terrifying beauty, the orcs were so in their energy - anger and hatred radiated off them in a way that Emma hadn't felt since the time she had accidentally come across a neo-nazi rally in her city. She shuddered and drew back onto the platform, wrapping herself tighter to try and keep out the shivering she knew wasn't just from the cold.

Not long after she saw a glinting of lights against the hobbits' tree, and focusing hard she realized that Gollum was climbing the tree.

"Sméagol!" She whispered loudly into the night. He turned suddenly towards her, his pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and Emma waved at him, mouthing the word 'hello'. He hesitated, began to raise his hand, then thought better of it, snarling and disappearing down the tree.

She lowered her hand and began moving back to her spot when she heard a whisper nearby. "Emma?"

Boromir was awake, and watching her. "You still have trouble sleeping?" He asked, sitting up to look at her with concern.

Nodding, Emma tried to smile at him. "I will blame Aragorn tonight," she whispered, "Trying to sleep with my head against the tree is very uncomfortable."

He looked down, and Boromir seemed to struggle with something internally before he finally spoke. "Perhaps... if you do not think it too improper, I can offer you my shoulder as a pillow this night. It will keep your head raised, but offer more comfort than the bark of a tree."

Sleeping with Boromir? Her brain shut off for a moment, and when it came back on it was screaming. It took everything within Emma's power to try and keep herself under control and not lose her mind. "Thank you. If it's not too much trouble, I'll accept."

He nodded and she moved over to him, lying down with him and gently resting her head against him, but carefully keeping her body from completely cuddling him. His arm wrapped around her back protectively.

If she kept her eyes closed, and imagined very hard, Emma was able to pretend that Boromir was her lover, and that this was them regularly cuddling as a couple - her snuggled up to his shoulder, his arm keeping her close. The wooden platform beneath them did not help the illusion, so she squeezed her eyes shut as she pretended that it was a comfortable bed, and that they weren't in heavy winter clothing but regular pyjamas, and were safe in a room somewhere, under a roof, maybe with a fireplace giving off light and warmth.

It was a dangerous game she was playing, she knew, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breaths, but she couldn't resist it.

Despite Boromir's presence, she still did not sleep easy - but neither did he, she discovered. Near the break of dawn, she was awoken as his leg suddenly jolted and he gasped, breathing heavily as he awoke. His arm tightened around her waist, and she attempted to keep her breaths as even as possible so he didn't think he'd woken her up. As he calmed down, his hand came up, and she felt him gently stroke her hair, before he returned to his rest.

It struck Emma in that moment, the possibility that she wasn't alone in her feelings. Her mind quickly went through every explanation that it could find to say that Boromir didn't love her back, and that she shouldn't get her hopes up because she'd just get hurt. It was more likely that he was just taking comfort from the nearest person, that if she hadn't been so close he may have moved himself closer to Aragorn, or gently stroked Gimli's beard instead.

It didn't stop her heart from pounding in her chest.

 


	19. Lothlórien Part II, or Emma's Favourite Duolingo Hebrew Skill Tree Is 'Omnious Portents'

When they awoke in the morning, Gimli was watching Boromir and Emma with sparkling eyes. She frowned at him, but couldn't bring herself to be annoyed - getting to wake up cuddled next to Boromir was the highlight of the entire journey since they left Rivendell. As well, her head hurt significantly less.

When they all were back on the ground, Rúmil and his brother Haldir met them to guide them deeper into Lothlórien. Haldir looked over the group of Big Folk, frowning as he glanced at Gimli and Emma, then turning away.

Well, she thought to herself, can't be liked by everyone. Jay and Acacia would show up and eat her alive.

The brothers took them into the woods away from the Nimrodel stream, and up to the Silverlode river that swept through the woods. Emma sighed heavily as she remembered how they were to cross it and made a little noise of annoyance. While most of the fellowship ignored her, Aragorn glanced back at her, his eyes widening slightly - she shrugged at him. His sudden understanding and mild fear of her knowledge almost made up for his riddle-talking months ago at the Prancing Pony.

Haldir made the call of a bird and another Elf across the river came out, and they tossed a rope between them, then two more. Emma grimaced as the little bridge was being built. The tight rope was not a skill she had, and every time she had gone on one it had ended very badly, whether at summer daycamps or those flatlines on campus. She shoved her bag into Legolas' arms, pulling her cloak over her head.

"I am not your packmule," the Elf protested.

"You have a better chance of surviving this nonsense with my pack then I do without it." She retorted, throwing the cloak on top. With a groan, she stepped forward to go first. "Let's get this over with."

Emma gripped the top rope firmly and regretfully stepped onto the tight line. At least her brother and sister weren't here to witness her fail yet again at a balance and coordination related activity - just her king, and the guy she was lowkey in love with, and all her really close friends, along with some very judgemental strangers. She did her very best, and made it a few steps until she first lost her balance and slipped.

The rope under her feet slid out and she dropped, heart nearly jumping out her throat as she gripped desperately for dear life. There were voices behind her calling out, but she ignored them, and the rushing of the river only a few feet below her dangling feet. Gritting her teeth and making a guttural irritated noise, she wrapped her legs around the bottom line and pushed herself up.

If only Sara and Sam could see me now, she thought as she pulled herself along, ignoring the strain in her arms and legs, and the frantic beating of her heart. At the halfway point of the river, she paused to breathe. It was definitely taking longer than she would have liked to cross the stupid thing, but she wasn't in the water, so that felt like a positive thing. She looked over to the Galadhrim on the bank and began shuffling towards her. She was a very cute Elf, she decided along the way. Normally she wasn't into blondes, but she could appreciate some fine features and a woman with a weapon.

Focusing on the Galadhrim, Emma finally made it to the dry land, landing quite happily on the grass at the new Elf's feet. Rolling over a couple times, she settled in to watch the others come over. Aragorn made it easily, as did Pippin and Frodo. Legolas, of course, didn't even use the hand ropes and instead ran along the single foot line much as he had on the snow of Caradhras. Upon making it, he dropped Emma's bag and cloak directly on her head.

Boromir went cautiously, every foot careful and sure, but he made it with better time than Emma, as did Gimli. Only Merry also slipped, following Sam's careful and unsure shuffle, too cocksure in his speed, but he recovered with more grace than Emma had. It took around fifteen minutes to pass, which seemed to bother the Galadhrim slightly, as they no doubt had hoped that the company would pass as quick as an Elf.

Emma was still sitting, though her pack and cloak were reattached and ready to go, when Haldir gathered them up.

"Now, friends," said Haldir, turning away from Emma as he spoke the last word, which she tried to not take as a slight, "You have entered the Naith of Lórien or the Gore, as you would say, for it is the land that lies like a spear-head between the arms of Silverlode and Anduin the Great. We allow no strangers to spy out the secrets of the Naith. Few indeed are permitted even to set foot there. As was agreed, I shall here blindfold the eyes of Gimli the Dwarf. The other may walk free for a while, until we come nearer to our dwellings, down in Egladil, in the Angle between the waters."

"Agreed by who?" Emma began to question, but Gimli spoke over her.

"The agreement was made without my consent," he spoke angrily, "I will not walk blindfold, like a beggar or a prisoner. And I am no spy. My folk have never had dealings with any of the servants of the Enemy. Neither have we done harm to the Elves. I am no more likely to betray you than Legolas, or any other of my companions."

Though Haldir tried to placate him, Gimli would not accept it, placing himself into a fighting stance. "I will go forward free, or I will go back and seek my own land, where I am known to be true of word, though I perish alone in the wilderness."

"You cannot go back," Haldir was icy, "Now you have come thus far, you must be brought before the Lord and the Lady. They shall judge you, to hold you or to give you leave, as they will. You cannot cross the rivers again, and behind you there are now secret sentinels that you cannot pass. You would be slain before you saw them."

Aragorn was staring at Emma again, and it dawned on her that her new role in the company, by Aragorn's thought at least, was as his support and to speak up to agree with him in front of the others, as he had for Gandalf. It was a bad decision on his part. "If Gimli goes, I go with him," she stood up in solidarity, her hand on Beacenfyr's hilt, "This smacks of anti-semitism and I am far, far from being in the mood." She added in English to no one's benefit.

Gimli did not acknowledge her declaration, but the cute Elf pointed her bow at Emma. She almost winked.

"A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!" Cried out Legolas in frustration.

With a dirty look at Emma, Aragorn stepped in. "Come!" He said, "If I am still to lead this Company, you must do as I bid. It is hard upon the Dwarf to be thus singled out. We will all be blindfold, even Legolas. That will be best, though it will make the journey slow and dull." Emma released the hilt of sword and nodded, to make up for her betrayal a little.

At this, Gimli laughed. "A merry troop of fools we shall look! Will Haldir lead us all on a string, like many blind beggars with one dog? But I will be content, if only Legolas here shares my blindness."

"I am an Elf and a kinsman here," protested Legolas. Emma just smirked at him as she stepped up to get blindfolded.

"Now let us cry: 'a plague on the stiff necks of Elves!'" Aragorn tried to make light of it all, "But the Company shall all fare alike. Come, bind our eyes Haldir!"

Emma reached out her hand for someone to take as her eyes were covered, looking for someone to help her through the woods. For all Legolas' complaints, she knew it was him who took one of her hands, as his skin was cool and his hand was long, and he was whining.

"Alas for the folly of these days!" He complained, "Here all are enemies of the one Enemy, and yet I must walk blind, while the sun is merry in the woodland under leaves of gold!"

Haldir responded with some exposition that Emma had always skipped over while reading - she wasn't about to listen now. Instead she turned her head towards the woods, listening intently for bird songs, or other woodland noises. Maybe she could pretend, briefly, that she was walking with Samuel and she was home.

Since the dwarf ring's visions, she had not been able to get her family out of her mind. It had been months that she was gone, and she had no clue what was occuring. Did they think her missing? Disappearing in England with hardly a trace, clothes and belongings left behind, but her body gone? Mama would be beside herself with worry - Mum would be unleashing her ginger temper on any fool who tried to stop her from hunting down her baby. And if her disappearence caused Sara's grades to drop so she didn't get into McGill University as she dreamed, Emma would be overwhelmed with guilt, nevermind that until she got back, she'd never know if it was true. Maybe she'd be lucky, and she'd get back and no time would have passed - only she would have aged and changed, the world standing still for a brief moment. She'd watched Doctor Who, she knew that was possible.

There were, of course, other possibilities. She could get back, and hundred or thousands of years could have passed, in the way of fairy realms. Or she could get back and it would the medieval eras - or worse, the Cromwell period.

There were worse possibilities for sure, but she let herself be distracted by the unfamiliar call of a bird, and returned her focus to the woods.

When night came, she found herself on the ground without a pillow, and hated it deeply. The Elves would not let them remove their blindfolds, and as she was feeling around for the softest bit of dirt and grass, she heard Boromir call her name.

"Emma," he was to her left somewhere, "May I renew my offer from last night?"

And there went her heart, as though she was falling off the rope bridge again. "Thank you, yes."

"What offer?" Pippin's sleepy voice asked behind her.

"She used him as a replacement for her lost pillow." It was impossible to miss Gimli's amusement at the two of them.

"Wait, I want to have Boromir as my pillow!" Pippin was suddenly moving, and fast, "Not fair for Em- for Haudhaew to get all the pillows."

"You are welcome to, I suppose." Emma bit back a laugh at the befuddlement in Boromir's voice. She finally reached his voice, and she put her hand out, touching his chest, then making it to his shoulder. Another body pressed against her's and she patted the head next to her.

"Oh, hello Sam."

The pile of them slept as comfortably as they could, Emma spooning Sam as she snuggled her face into Boromir's shoulder. In turn, he draped his arm over both of them, and over Pippin on his other side. With so many of her friends around her, Emma risked sleep.

Her dreams were dark and cruel. She was trapped, locked in a dungeon that changed with every step she took, searching desperately for her family. Emma would try to open the doors in the walls, turning keys that would turn to dust in her hand like in a video game, but beyond the doorway there was only blackness, no sign of anyone, and in the dream she began to panic.

"Have you opened that one?" Spinning around, Emma saw Gandalf standing there in singed grey robes, pointing to a door already open.

"I already used that key," she said stupidly, as the door was open regardless.

"Then you'll need to find another." Flames began to engulf him, and he began to burn in front of her, his skin turning black, "Leich b’shalom!"

"No, that's not right," Emma spoke as the flames came towards her, licking at her feet and wrapping around her ankles, " _Leich l’shalom_!"

Her eyes flew open, but saw only darkness still. She nearly cried out, but then remembered the blindfold, and she began to settle again, taking her arm off of Sam and deciding to cheat a little. Reaching up, she pushed aside the blindfold.

The silvery light of the moon was bright after a day's walk in the blindfold, and she winced slightly. Pushing herself up a bit, she smiled. The sight of Boromir, flat out on his back with Pippin, Sam, and her all curled up against him gave her some ease after her nightmare. She took the chance to stare openly at his face, admiring the way his dark hair fell over his brow. He didn't look like Sean Bean, that was for sure - most of the people she had met, aside from Aragorn and Gandalf, she found to share little to no resemblance to the actors in the movies. Boromir was darker in both his hair and complexion, and had only a bit of a beard, even after the weeks of journeying in the wilderness.

She was just considering his nose when he jolted awake and made her jump, gasping out and reaching up to his blindfold. "I ianu!" He choked out, lifting himself slightly.

Emma slammed her hand down on him to stop him from disturbing the hobbits. "Boromir, Boromir, all is well," she whispered, trying feebly to press him back to the ground, "Don't wake them."

"Emma?" He pushed up his blindfold to look at her, relief crossing over his face, "Forgive me - I disturbed you."

"I was awake already." She watched as he lay his head back down, staring up into the night sky, emotions that she was not privy to processing inside him. She felt as his breathing began to slow and even out.

His eyes began to droop again. Glancing up at her, he smiled and tugged the blindfold back over her eyes. "Try to rest, even if you do not slumber."

With a frown, she rested her chin on his shoulder. "I dreamt of Gandalf, and fire."

Boromir did not answer her at first but he took her hand that rested on his chest in his own. "We cannot carry the weight of the dead." He said gently.

"It's not that," she sighed, "It's that he was speaking my mothertongue, and poorly." This brought a chuckle out of him and she smiled, pleased at getting him to laugh. She didn't mention that the grammar in Gandalf's Hebrew meant he was speaking to her as though she was dead. Maybe it was a sign that she was dead, and this was her afterlife - the worst theory yet.

Boromir drifted off and Emma snuggled into his shoulder, trying not to disturb him or Sam. Maybe she would ask him for advice when they had some privacy on how to fall back sleep when horrors of battle and trauma haunted your dreams. She hoped that the answer wasn't 'years of repression', for both of their sakes.

She drifted on and off through the night, never letting herself lapse into a deeper slumber. Though she could not see the early morning light come through the trees, she did feel the warmth of its rays on her body. Happily, she stretched out and moved away from her pile of men and hobbits, accidentally jostling Sam into waking as well. When she was free, she tried to move her blindfold away, but was quickly shut down.

"Leave it," Haldir ordered her from her right.

She raised her hands in surrender. "I just want to find my bag, that's all."

It was pressed into her hands, and before she could even utter a 'thank you', Haldir was waking the others. Their breakfast was quick, and soon they were underway again.

A few moments into their walk, Emma heard heavy steps coming into place beside her. "I hope that I am finding you well-rested this morning, Miss Smith." Gimli's voice ill-concealed his mirth.

"As well as anyone can be, when they sleep blinded."

The dwarf sighed. "Indeed. I mean to thank you, Miss Smith, for standing by me. You have always shown good character in moments when such is tested."

"That's a lovely thing to say," She said politely, "But I only did what I would hope any would do for me in the face of such discrimination."

"And have they?"

She didn't answer, thinking back to her time, of all the snide comments she put up with between her being a Jewish ginger with  lesbian moms. Standing up for a dwarf was the least she could do. Gimli accepted her silence as an answer, and made to kindly pat her arm, only to miss and vaguely high-fived her hanging hand. Neither acknowledged it.

At noon, the fellowship and Emma were halted, and suddenly there were Elven voices all around them. A group of Galadhrim came up, having been sent out to deal with the orcs hunting the fellowship, and to guard the border against other incursions from Moria. They spoke in the Silvan tongue, with Haldir and Legolas translating.

Finally, they said what Emma wanted to hear. "You are all to walk free, even the dwarf Gimli. It seems that the Lady knows who and what is each member of your Company. New messages have come from Rivendell perhaps."

Emma barely gave Haldir time to finish his sentence before ripping the blindfold off, pulling half her hair out of its braid as she did so. The sunlight struck her eyes hard and she winced, but stood strong, squinting at the new Elves who surrounded them. They were very attractive, in that elegant and ethereal Elven way, but she had zero interest in them as she noticed the mound nearby them, crowned by a double ring of trees, the mallorns on the inside and what looked like birch on the outer.

Looking around, Emma saw what could be golden narcissus in little clumps throughout the woods, along with other blooms she could not recognize - it took every ounce of willpower not to go wandering deep into the woods to explore the flora.

The others sat down on the grass as their blindfolds were removed, but Emma stayed standing, squinting at the yellow flowers. On a second look, they seemed more like golden pimpernels, which she had never seen before. Legolas followed her gaze.

"Ah, the _elanor_?" He asked, gazing at the woods, "Have you not seen elanor, Haudhaew?"

"Elanor?" She gasped, then gave up on restraint and booked it straight over to the flowers. Squatting, she cupped them in hands, beaming down at the beautiful golden flowers. These were the legendary blooms of Lorien, the ones Sam would name his daughter after - or rather, that Frodo would name Sam's daughter after.

She delicately traced the petals in her hands, overwhelmed by the opportunity to see the flora of Middle-earth that were gone to ages, or possibly never existed.

Her name was called as she tried to move on to see the snowdrops nearby, and she saw that the others were following Haldir up the mound, and she caught up to them.

Emma kept getting distracted as she climbed the hill. The snowdrops she found to be called niphredil, reminding her of her Rivendell horse friend (the only one she would ever consider close to such a thing). It took everything in her power to not pick the flowers - she thought it might be a faux-pas. When they reached the ring of birch trees, she left the group to touch them, circling around the trees. A south wind caught her hair, blowing it into her face. She smiled, pulling her hair back and enjoying the scents it carried - fresh plant life, grass, and something she couldn't place but made her immensely happy.

As she circled the top of the hill, she looked down the hill to see Aragorn, a golden flower in his hand, looking up at the hill in a memory. He did seem younger, reminiscing about his betrothel to Arwen, and standing in light of all his happiness. Emma wrapped her arms around herself and watched him indulgently, smiling to herself.

She felt a presence join her, and looking over her shoulder she saw Boromir looking at her very fondly. Flushing, Emma looked away, but then she felt him brush her hair away from her cheek and behind her ear. Startled she looked up again at him, but he was striding away from her back towards the others coming down from the platform.

Emma watched him go, as red as her hair, before she rushed back down to Aragorn. He didn't seem to notice that she was out of breath or that she was hiding her face from everyone.

As she calmed down, she crouched down to pick a niphredil, and wrapped it gently in her second shirt, stashing it in her pack. She hoped that in the hard and dark times ahead, she could use it as a reminder of a peaceful day, with a warm wind blowing, and the feeling of Boromir's touch still on her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Leich b'shalom!" - "Go in peace!" (Hebrew, spoken to deceased people)  
> "Leich l'shalom!" - "Go to peace!" (Hebrew, spoken to living people)  
> "I ianu!" - "The bridge!" (Sindarin)


End file.
